


The Haunting of Lockwood Estates | Supernatural x Nancy Drew Crossover

by radpineapple, ScionGlobe



Category: Nancy Drew (Video Games), Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene, Supernatural
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radpineapple/pseuds/radpineapple, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScionGlobe/pseuds/ScionGlobe
Summary: **COLLAB WITH SCIONGLOBE/RADPINEAPPLE!!! UPDATED BI-WEEKLY ON SUNDAYS/THURSDAYS**March 2008 finds the town of Blackridge, New Hampshire in a roar of upset. A place called Lockwood Estates has begun once again claiming lives after nearly ten years of silence. No one has survived a night there in decades, and it is rumored to be haunted by a growing number of grim souls.After the most recent unexplainable murder, Sam and Dean Winchester have been asked to step in by an anonymous, and desperate, benefactor. Both are certain that they can have the job wrapped up by midnight and be on their way.Meanwhile, the county sheriff has just called in P.I. Nancy Drew to investigate. With an impressive portfolio and a stubborn mindset, Nancy is positive that she can get to the bottom of the case without any help.What none of them realize, is that all three of them are in danger from what they least believe in, and if they don’t work together, they may just become the next victims of Lockwood Estates.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Historian’s Note**

* * *

This story takes place between the third-season Supernatural episodes “Ghostfacers” and “Long Distance Call,” and four years after the Nancy Drew adventure “Midnight in Salem” (which for the purposes of this fic, took place in 2004).


	2. Prologue - Donovan Hughes

Prologue - Donovan Hughes

* * *

_ Lockwood Estates _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Saturday 8 March 2008 _

The green skies are lit only by stars, the moon hidden either by hills or clouds. The road to get back here was just as winding and out of the way as promised. Seems no one wanted to live nearby. From what little information I gleaned from my source, I can’t say I blame them.

They should have called in a ghost hunter sooner than they did. Idiots.

I look out the driver window of my van. The icy gates of the property are locked tight by a thick chain, and a tacky “Danger: No Trespassing” sign has been screwed to the gate to keep out locals, as well as a few other signs declaring that the local sheriff’s office has forbidden entry. Some of them are rusting and have obviously been here awhile, but there are a few that look so new they could have very well been posted today.

Foot firmly on the brake, I pull the letter from my pocket, the one bidding me to come, to make sure that I am at the correct place. Seems I am.

According to the letter, some stupid twenty-something-year-old went into the house a couple weeks back, and got himself killed by the “ghost” while doing some research--research that I am getting paid a small fortune to finish. While I feel sorry for the poor bastard, not everyone is cut out for, or prepared for, real-life ghost-hunting.

All I need to do here is spend the night, collect data, and get out. I’ve been paid much less to do far more. It’s a good deal, what with the expenses going up.

Everyone in town seems to know the story of the Lockwood mansion. Haunted by hungry souls from centuries past, tormenting any living person who dares enter the grounds. According to the locals, all children in Blackridge learn to not dare set foot across the threshold of the Lockwood property, if they want to remain in the land of the living.

I am better than them. More alert, more prepared. Armed with professional, top-of-the-line ghost hunting equipment and even a glock, should the situation call for it. I will be the first person to spend the night in Lockwood mansion, and not drop dead from any “ghosts” that may or may not haunt the halls. I’ve been around the block. I know what to do.

I shift the gear into “park” on the side of the road next to the mansion, the van’s chassis slightly tilted. The bright headlights show the snowy, hilly road ahead for miles, and reveal a thick wall covered in frozen ivy, which seems to surround the property.

Time to go.

After grabbing a few things, I slam the back door of my van shut, checking my backpack straps and equipment once more before going over to the gates barring me from direct entry to the Lockwood Estates. I trace my fingers across the intricate metalwork. Though slightly rusted and choked with vines, one can still see the Victorian-era beauty, the prestigiousness of a family all but forgotten. 

After adjusting my headlamp, checking the camera clipped to my shirt pocket to make sure it’s turned on, and making sure my backpack is secure, I take a running jump and vault over the fence, smirking all the while.

Rumors abound from those who claim they have spent the night... and lived. They tell tales of moving floors, changing rooms, and of course, the ghosts. As far as anyone can tell, none have actually spent the night as they claimed. No one has, since the property was officially abandoned over a decade ago.

Those who go on the property during the day, whether by accident or curiosity, always come back in shock, muttering about voices in the forest, an unshakable chill (even during the hot and sticky summer months), and an intense feeling of being watched. Eventually, the ghost hunters began to show up, but not even they spent the night. A TV special was made, although later the producers admitted wishing they had never stepped foot in that house, as what they had seen and felt still haunted their sleepless nights.

But still, they come. Most come and go without much incident, scaring themselves silly before moving on to their next haunt. Others… do not.

Because they are fools.

I dust my hands off as I approach the front door, carefully stepping around weed-choked asphalt from where some skeptic tried and failed to make the place habitable a few years back.

The house itself was a marvel in its time, but has long-since aged out of its prime. Three stories, not including the attic, with a wrap-around porch, and a separate shed. But the paint is peeling off, and most windows are cracked or shattered if they even remain. The roof is even caved in on one side. There is a thin blanket of fresh snow where the trees didn’t block the house from the weather.

Cherry double doors, cracked and graying with decay, are all that stand between me and getting inside that house.  _ So the rumors that the door had been padlocked, like the gate, were false. _ I pull the door open, wincing at the earsplitting creak. 

The interior is just as horrendous as I had imagined. The pair of wooden staircases leading upwards matched the front door, and were carpeted with a dusty, worn carpet that has long-since been bleached of its color. Directly ahead, is a fireplace lined with dusty marble. The furniture placed around the room must have once been handsome, but now look like sad thrift-store rejects. A moldy, tasseled rug has thinned to the point where you can see the outlines of the wood floorboards beneath it.

I blow out a puff of air as I cross the threshold, my breath a plume of steam. It is much colder in here than outside. Like breathable ice. The floorboards creak beneath my feet. A trickle of unease fills my chest.  _ You shouldn’t be here _ , the voice in my head warns, conditioned from the warnings from town. 

I shake off the feeling.

Above the fireplace is a very large, and very old painting of a man, covered in cobwebs and years of caked dust. It draws my attention because of its prominence in the room. Cocking my head, I move closer. 

My headlamp flickers.

_ I need to replace the batteries _ , I think to myself, glad that I had the foresight to bring some extras, as well as an extra flashlight to work with. The fresh ones I put in right before I left must have been faulty.

Something creaks upstairs… no,  _ skitters _ . The wind? Or mice perhaps. I take off my backpack, bending down to root through.

A light breeze seems to drift past me, as if someone is blowing on the back of my neck. I jerk around, only to see nothing. I stare for a couple more seconds, before slowly turning back to my bag.

It happens again, this time coming from my right, just as my hand finds the extra flashlight. I swing my arm out as I turn it on, just in case there is someone attempting to scare me.

Both my headlamp and flashlight flicker in unison. Something brushes against my leg. The floorboards creak behind me.

_ Shit _ .

I whirl around.

The lights go out.


	3. Chapter 1 - Dean

##  Chapter 1 - Dean (Get Case)

* * *

_ Rest E-Z Motel _

_ Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

A terrible sound jolts me awake. I look over to the nightstand next to me, and my cell phone rings again. I sigh tiredly and stare up at the ceiling. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. The familiar chemical smell of all the motels Sam and I stay in reminds me of the latest one we have been staying in for the past week--a small place in Pennsylvania. My cell phone continues to ring, and Sam stirs in the bed next to mine.

I sigh and lurch over, glaring at the small LED screen as I pick it up. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyway. 

“Hello?” I say groggily. I sit up and run a hand over my face. Sam sits up in his bed and attempts to wipe the tangle of messy hair from his eyes. He shoots me a questioning look, and I shrug in response.

_ “Are you, uh, Dean?”  _ a man’s voice asks.

A hundred thoughts run through my head. Sam and I are supposedly dead. The only ones who know otherwise--besides Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and the Ghostfacers (groan)--are the demons hunting us. Well, I suppose more accurately, hunting Sam.

Was I wrong to stop Ruby from doing that spell? I had to try to save everyone. I couldn’t just let her cut out some virgin’s heart, for Pete’s sake. But still, those deaths hang over my head, even weeks after the fact. 

I push away the feeling and force a smirk on my face. Sam would say I’m ignoring my “feelings” or whatever. So what if I am.

“Uh…” I say, thinking fast. My patience is running thin, I’m tired, and Sam and I have spent the past several weeks waiting for the other shoe to drop. The last thing I need right now is to have to deal with anyone else hunting us down.

_ “...Hello?”  _ the man’s voice says. I blink and shake my head a little to bring myself back to the present.  _ “Mr. Singer?” _

_ Singer? What the hell? _

“You’re looking for... ‘Dean Singer’?” I ask hesitantly.

_ “Yeah. I got the number from Bobby Singer? Your uncle?” _

I give a genuine grin.  _ Bobby, you son of a bitch. _ So he’s pimping us out for jobs now? 

I chuckle a little. Of course he would send a job our way. Sam and I need to do something instead of sitting around arguing about whose turn it is to pick up more quarters for the Magic Fingers bed.

“Yeah,” I say cheerfully, pinching the bridge of my nose to wipe away sleep, “This is Dean Singer. Who is this?” Sam gives me his classic “confused” look. I wink at him in response, suddenly feeling much more relaxed. Covering the mic with my hand, I whisper, “It’s not a demon.”

He rolls his eyes with a scoff and gets up. 

_ “You’ve...you’ve got to help me,” _ the man on the phone says, ignoring my question.

“...Help with what?” I ask, smile fading slightly, replaced with the familiar existential dread I face each morning, thanks to the clock in my head counting down each day until the hellhounds come.

_ “I think I’m being haunted!”  _ he exclaims. He sounds desperate. 

_ Haunted, huh?  _ Sometimes, when people get emotional, suddenly everything can be passed off as something supernatural. And this guy sounds pretty emotional. I swear, if this turns out to be nothing…

But surely Bobby wouldn’t have sent him our way without reason.

“Okay, well, have you seen anything weird lately?” I question. 

_ “I’m doing research on a mansion called the Lockwood Estates in Blackridge, New Hampshire and…” _ He trails off. 

“And?” I prompt impatiently. 

_ “The people who have been helping me with my research have all died! The local legends say the Estates are haunted, but I never believed--”  _ His voice breaks. 

This doesn’t sound like  _ he _ is being haunted. Surely a ghost isn’t following him around and uprooting his life. “So, are  _ you _ being haunted, or is this mansion haunted?” I ask him. 

He takes in a shaky breath. He sounds more collected when he speaks,  _ “I suppose it is the Lockwood Estates since everyone has died in there.” _

“Alright. And you said there is some local lore on the place?” 

_ “Yes, that’s right. I don’t really believe in anything...paranormal, but I heard you were the one to call if there was trouble, and I really can’t see any other possibility at this point, and I just…”  _ He trails off again. He breathes in deeply.  _ “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough few weeks for me. I never imagined myself calling a ghost hunter for help, so I guess I don’t really know what to believe right now.”  _ He sighs.  _ “Will you come?”  _

I don’t see why not. This job has enough substance to be something. Besides, I’ve investigated plenty of other jobs with less information. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s almost 7:30 in the morning now, and if this haunted mansion is in New Hampshire...then the drive should be like six or seven hours. “Yeah,” I answer. “I can be there by the afternoon. What’s your name?” 

He awkwardly clears his throat.  _ “I don’t really feel comfortable giving it to you. The local population here is already superstitious as it is  _ without _ their dislike for an outsider like me, so I don’t really want them to know I called in some...ghost hunters.” _

I roll my eyes. For one, I’m not a “ghost hunter,” and two, no one cares. But whatever. “Yeah, okay,” I say. “Me and my brother will be there today.” 

_ “Oh, thank you!”  _ Relief makes his tone lighter. 

I hang up. 

“What was that about?” Sam asks me. 

“We have a job,” I answer. 

“What is it?” 

“Some guy called saying this mansion--Lockwood Estates, I think--in Blackridge, New Hampshire is haunted,” I say.

“And you believe him?” my brother questions. 

“Yeah. He sounded pretty scared,” I say, then add, “He also said that Bobby recommended us.”

Sam nods thoughtfully. “Did the guy say who he was?” he asks. 

“No,” I answer. “He didn’t’ really want people to know he called some Hunters to investigate.”

“Huh,” Sam comments. “That’s kind of weird.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I agree. “Think I’ll call Bobby once we get on the road, see if he knows anything more about this guy, or about this ‘Lockwood Estates.’”

“Good idea.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Either way, it does sound like it’s worth looking into. I can be ready in twenty minutes.” 

I grimace at the alarm clock as I get out of bed. “Why can’t we ever get jobs at normal hours of the day?”

Sam glances at the time. “7:30 isn’t that early.” 

“It is with daylight savings,” I grumble, dragging my hand down my face. I have been dreading it, so I know full-well that it starts today. Losing an hour in the morning sucks.

“Fine. 6:30 isn’t that early.”

I glare at him. “Don’t act like you’re not tired,” I retort as I walk towards the coffee machine. I frown at the coffee in the pot. Did I make this last night, or the night before? Probably tastes the same. 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t tired, Dean.” Sam crosses the room over to the bathroom. 

“Uh-huh,” I say unbelievingly, “ _ You _ just wanted to remind me that you used to wake up early for your college classes.” I grab a cup from the sink. Pretty sure there was just water in this before. No harm in reusing it then.

“ _ Really _ , Dean?” he answers with a glare as he slams the bathroom door shut. 

I make a face at the door before I take a sip of coffee. It’s cold and tastes like ham. When did we have ham? I cough as I force myself to swallow it before pouring the rest down the drain. 

\----

Having finished checking out, I leave the front lobby of the motel and meet Sam outside. Our bags are piled around the Impala, and the back panel is propped open to display the array of weaponry ranging from shotguns to crucifixes filling the trunk. A small devil’s trap is spray-painted in white paint on the inside of the back panel. I pass Sam and grab my bags as I expectantly open the door to the backseat. 

“Where’s the cooler?” I ask as I scan the interior of the Impala.

“That demon from Chicago broke it, remember?” 

I frown and slump a little. “Oh, yeah.” 

“Why are you asking?” 

I hold up the six pack of beer in my hand. “I can’t let this go to waste.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You can just drink it at room temperature.” 

“I have  _ some _ standards, Sammy.” 

“Sure you do.” He smirks as he gets inside the passenger seat. I place the beer in the back with our bags and get into the driver’s side. 

“So, New Hampshire then?” I start the car and turn up the music. 


	4. Chapter 2 - Nancy

##  Chapter 2 - Nancy

* * *

_ Montgomery Inn & Suites _

_ Hartford, Connecticut _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

The phone rings. I pick it up without looking up from the letter I am writing to my boyfriend Ned, detailing my latest mystery. It is a tradition for me to do so, and he just recently showed me the album he made with all the ones I have ever sent him.

I flip the phone open and click the answer button. “Drew P.I. Firm,” I say, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder. “How may I help you?”

A gruff, male voice answers.  _ “Hello, may I speak to Nancy Drew please?” _

“Speaking,” I say, noticing that my pen is starting to run dry. I shake it a few times to get the blue ink flowing again.

_ “I got your number from Chief McGinnis in River Heights. Do you have a moment?” _

I pause my writing, and check the caller ID. It’s a 603 area code.  _ New England somewhere if I remember correctly… Vermont maybe? _

“I do,” I respond, pulling my notebook towards me. I write down the date--3/9/08--and hold my pen at the ready. “May I get your name please?”

_ “Sheriff Aaron Reeves. I am close friends with Chief McGinnis.” _

I perk up. Chief McGinnis has mentioned Sheriff Reeves multiple times to me throughout my career. If I remember correctly, they graduated from the police academy at the same time, top of their class.

“Hello, Sheriff Reeves. How can I help you today?” I glance over at the clock on the nightstand. 11:43 a.m. I am cutting it close to the checkout time of noon. My bags are already packed and sitting by the door, but I did want to finish my letter to Ned, so I can drop it in the mail before heading out.

Pulling the letter towards me, I quickly write at the bottom of the stationary,  _ “I’ll tell you more when I see you! Love, Nancy,”  _ stuff it in the envelope, and seal it.

_ “I have a puzzling case for you…”  _ the sheriff continues as I set the letter on my suitcase and pull on my sneakers and cardigan. “ _ A string of strange deaths at this manor, going back as far as the house has existed--over a hundred years. But someone seems to be using the house’s history to get away with murder. Second one of the month happened last night. Just reported.” _

I sit down at the foot of the bed, listening intently.

_ “But the odd thing is,”  _ he continues,  _ “there seems to be no motive, and from what we can tell, no one was around at the time of deaths. Stranger still, the method of killing, the lack of evidence, matches the past deaths to a ‘T.’” _

“That is strange,” I agree.

_ “We are at a complete loss, and no matter what I do, people keep ignoring the signs I put up and keep going onto the property and yammering on about ghosts. I just want to figure out what’s going on before anyone else gets hurt, and Mcginnis seems to think that this kind of thing is right up your alley.” _

“The manor is supposedly haunted?” My interest is piqued.

_ “It’s just the local legend,”  _ Reeves responds with a sad chuckle.  _ “Everyone knows about it. Everyone has different stories about it.” _

“Interesting…” I muse.

_ “How fast can you come to New Hampshire? Would you be able to fly out today by any chance? I’d cover the costs of course.” _

So he’s calling from New Hampshire. My guess was close.

“As a matter of fact, I am currently in Hartford, Connecticut,  _ and _ I just finished a case.” I finish tying my shoelaces, go to the hotel window, and peek out the curtains down a dozen stories to my classic, light blue convertible. It is already gassed-up and ready to go in anticipation of the long trip back to River Heights. “I can drive up today. What’s the address?” I quickly grab my new handheld GPS unit from my knapsack. Dad got it for me as an early birthday present.

_ “1223 Lockwood Circle, Blackridge. New Hampshire, of course. Do you need the zip?” _

I type as fast as I can, squinting at the options that pop up on screen. “Nope, found it,” I say, pulling up the address. “I’ll be there in three hours.”

\----

_ “So you’re on your way to New Hampshire now?”  _ Dad asks, his voice connected to my car’s speakers, thanks to some bluetooth dashboard upgrades my friend George engineered for me.  _ “Why shouldn’t classic cars get all the fun stuff?”  _ she had said.

“Yes,” I say, eyeing the car behind me. They came up fast. “Do you remember Aaron Reeves?”

_ “The Chief’s friend, right?” _

“Yes. He called for me personally.” Now that car is tailgating in a passing zone, with absolutely no oncoming cars. I am already going ten over.  _ Can’t I just enjoy a nice mountain drive, please? _ I hit my brakes and slow down to exactly the speed limit just to annoy them. They back up a little in response, but then go right back to tailgating. I grit my teeth.  _ Just pass me while you can! _

_ “You’re sure it was him, right?”  _ Dad always asks me to confirm identities with people I take cases from, ever since that incident in Scotland. That was the first and only time he had told me that I did not have his permission to be out of the country. He told me to come home the instant he found out, because I had been investigating the cause of my mother’s death. Ever since she died, he has been overprotective of me. And perhaps for good reason, based on what little I’ve found out.

“Yes. The Chief actually called right after Sheriff Reeves did to let me know that he would be calling. I told him he already had.” I chuckle. “The Chief did say that he seemed pretty desperate when he asked about me.”

_ “Well, please be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt. I wish Ned were there with you.” _

“I know,” I say, slowing down a bit more as the car haphazardly passes me on a double-yellow line on a mountain curve. I shake my head at them, just glad that they aren’t tailgating anymore. Now it’s just me, the forest, and the bright blue sky. “Classes, remember?” I remind him. I smile at the thought of Ned and I working on cases together on a regular basis when he graduates.

_ “Or Bess. Or George.” _

“Job, and internship,” I remind him.

He sighs.  _ “Just do be careful, Nancy.” _

“I will!” I say cheerfully.

_ “I know you are. You always are. I just… I just have a weird feeling about this case.” _

“You say that about  _ every _ out-of-town case, Dad.”

_ “Well, this time, I mean it a little extra. Do you want me to call ahead and arrange a nice hotel for you?” _

“The Sheriff said he had one lined up for me. The Wattleworth Hotel.”

Dad scoffs.  _ “I’ll make some calls and get you in a better one.” _

“Dad,” I say with a slight chuckle.

_ “The Wattleworth chain is fine and all, but let’s get you in a proper hotel. I’ll call back in a bit.” _

As usual, I know he won’t let this go. The business at  _ Drew Law Offices _ has hit an all-time high, and his hotel standards have gone up with it. “Sounds good, Dad.” I smile. “Thanks.”

_ “Love you, kiddo. Talk to you soon. Keep me updated where you are, okay?” _

“Love you too. And I will! Bye.”

He hangs up, and I take in a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. I miss him a lot. He’s been abroad for the past few weeks for an important trial. 

And then there’s Hannah and Togo back home, without either of us. Hannah has been dating though, so she should be okay.

I look around with a smile, allowing myself to soak in the beautiful New England scenery, relishing the bit of alone time I have left before diving into another case.

But this is what I enjoy. The chaos, the intrigue, the cases, the people…. I love solving mysteries.

And I am  _ good _ at it.


	5. Chapter 3 - Dean

**Chapter 3 - Dean**

* * *

_ Lockwood Estates _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

Almost seven hours, one shitty motel room, and two uncomfortable suits later we pull up to Lockwood Estates. There is a ghost hunting van at the front of the property. I sigh. The last thing we need is more Ghostfacer-type douchebags.

Then my eyes land on the house.

“Are you serious,” I state grumpily as we pull into the property, parking next to an old police cruiser. This mansion could have been pulled straight out of a horror movie, with peeling paint, rotting wood, and overgrown plants covering the porch. If anywhere were to be haunted, it’d be here. 

From what Bobby told us en route, he doesn’t know much about the guy who called us in, only as much as he’d told me. But Bobby was able to dig up some info on the property. Apparently, the owner--Sherman Lockwood--hanged himself in his room a couple centuries back. Unexplainable deaths have been plaguing the property since, and it has been officially abandoned for over a decade. That’s all we have to go on, and it’s already enough to convince me that those who ignore the legend are idiots. I am reminded of our last job, at a place called the Monroe house. 

“What moron would want to spend the night here?” I ask.

“You’re telling me,” Sam agrees as we step out of the car. We head past the line of cars and crunch through the snow towards the building. I shiver. New England is always cold, especially this time of year, but is it usually  _ this  _ cold? Crime scene tape surrounds the entrance to the house, and cops are crawling over every inch of the place. 

I freeze, my sour mood dissipating. Several yards away from us stands one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. She is small, has soft round curves, and is impressively well put-together.

“Dean?” Sam asks, a few steps away from me. 

“Look at this car, Sammy!” 

“Yeah, that is a cool car, Dean, but—”

“You don’t get it, Sammy!” I say, smacking him on the arm with the back of my hand, “I haven’t seen a car this old in such good condition since, well, since my  _ Baby _ .” I almost feel like I am cheating on my own car looking at this beauty.

It is a cobalt blue 1968 Chevy Camaro convertible, with a single, pristine white stripe running down the side and a clean fabric top. It must have either been painted recently--or very well-maintained over the years--to retain that metallic sheen, which is only dimmed by the dirt and ice splattered on the front. An occupational hazard of the season, as I very well know. 

What I would give to be able to drive her _. I have to meet the owner of this car,  _ I think to myself, giving a small audible moan.

“ _ Dean _ ,” Sam nags.

I look longingly at the car and purposely give a long sigh to show my annoyance. I’ll have to get a closer look later.  _ “Fine.” _ He is always so serious.  _ He needs to get laid. _ I follow him the rest of the way to the crime scene. We wave our badges in front of the cop guarding the entrance to the mansion grounds. “Agents Wood,” I gesture to myself, then look to Sam, “and McKellen,” I introduce. The cop glances at our badges and pulls the crime scene tape up for us to enter the grounds. I glance back just in time to see the driver door of the Camaro open. I can’t believe my eyes. 

My heart flutters, my breath catches, and something in my brain freezes. 

A young woman, with long, silky, red hair steps out. In her early twenties, if I have to guess. She shakes out her locks as she straightens her jacket’s collar, the strands catching seductively in the sunlight. Using her hip to knock the car door shut leaves her hands free as she pulls her hair back into a high ponytail. She looks to be shorter than me by almost a foot, but has a thin and curvy figure that more than makes up for it. She is wearing a pleated skirt to boot. This girl, paired with  _ this  _ car? I have never seen anything sexier in my entire life.  _ “Dude,”  _ I smack Sam again, a little harder than last time. 

He turns to see what I was looking at. “Seriously, Dean? You don’t have to get my attention  _ every _ time you see a cute girl.” 

Is my brother even human? How can he  _ not _ get how amazing it was to see this beautiful car with this beautiful woman? How can he possibly not get the allure? The magic of it all? It makes me want to shake some sense into him. 

I scoff. “No, Sammy, you don’t get it! She owns the  _ car _ .”

“Most women do own cars, yes,” he says, surely messing with me by this point.

“No, she owns  _ the  _ car.  _ And  _ she’s cute.”

Sam glances over at her, then back at me. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no?’ She  _ is _ .” I grin.

“I meant ‘no, Dean, please focus for once.’”

“Pfft,” I scoff, rubbing my palms together in excitement. “A cute girl who just so happens to own a beautiful car? This day is getting better and better.”  _ If she sees my car, and we get talking, maybe a nice dinner and booze… well, let’s just say I would be driving more than that car by tonight. _

“Just  _ try _ to focus on the job, Dean.” 

“I can multitask.” 

Sam just shakes his head as he practically drags me towards the house. The double-doors to the mansion open, and a cop steps out. He sees us and waves us over. As we get closer, I notice the sheriff badge pinned to his shirt. 

“Hello, gentlemen,” he greets. “Heard we had a couple of FBI agents at the scene. What brings you boys here? The FBI isn’t usually on cases like these.” 

“We’re just being thorough,” Sam explains. “Sheriff, are there any witnesses to the latest murder?”

“We have a couple here but, if you don’t mind waiting a moment?” 

Sam and I look at each other. We are both thinking the same thing:  _ Waiting for what? _

“I, ah, asked a professional to come help out with this case,” the sheriff explains.

“A professional?” Sam questions, cocking his head slightly. He looks like a puppy whenever he does that. “...You mean like a Private Investigator?”

The sheriff shrugs. 

Sam and I share a glance. Is there another Hunter here? 

“Here she is now.” The sheriff nods to someone behind us. We turn around. It’s the girl with the Camaro. I can tell instantly that she isn’t the Hunter type. I smile at her softly, giving her the eyes that usually get our waitresses. Her gaze is dismissive. 

“Great to finally meet you in person, Nancy,” the sheriff says, a much warmer greeting to her than to Sam and me. “Chief Mcginnis spoke very highly of you.”

“Nice to meet you as well,” Nancy says, shaking his hand with a grin. She had changed from her form-fitting jacket to a bulky sweater.  _ Emerson College _ . Her alma mater?

“The Chief has told me a lot about you and your case record.  _ Exceedingly _ impressive. How many years now?”

“Officially? Three. Opened the business at nineteen.”  _ Who the hell is this chick?? _ “Before that,” she continues, “I spent years working on my skills and building relationships in the professional world.”

_ Twenty-two then. I wasn’t too far off. And she has her own P.I. business already? Goddamn.  _ A small part of me wonders if this is the life Sam would have if he had stayed in Stanford...

Sheriff Reeves gives a low whistle, wiping his hand on his brow. He’s clearly impressed, as am I. The sheriff finally turns back to me and Sam. “Oh, Nancy, let me introduce you to Agents McKellen and Wood.”

“You can call me Dean,” I say, winking as we shake hands. Her eyes narrow. That... isn’t the response I was hoping for. I’ll just have to pull out all the tricks for this one.

“Ignore my partner,” Sam says, giving me a warning glance as he takes her hand to shake next. “Nancy, right?”

“Yes. Nancy Drew,” she says warmly. Sam freezes, his face paling. She doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re Agent McKellen, right?”

“Y-yes. I’m... Agent McKellen.” He gulps.

I haven’t seen my brother so nervous since that case with the clowns.

“So… ‘ _ Drew _ ,’” Sam says cautiously, “Any relation to, um,  _ Carson  _ Drew?”

“Actually, he’s my father!” Nancy says brightly. “We work cases together sometimes. Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation.” Sam gives me an “oh, shit” look. I’ll have to ask about that later.

Nancy nods to the body bag as some poor saps roll it towards the coroner’s vehicle. “So what happened here?” She pulls a notebook and pen from her small backpack. She flips through to a fresh sheet, and I catch glimpses of dozens and dozens of pages that are completely filled with neat notes, diagrams, and God-knows-what-else, all written in blue ink. I frown. She’s definitely more on the geeky side. She might have more in common with Sam than me, but when has that ever stopped me?

The sheriff puts his thumbs in his pockets, squinting over at the body. ““The vic’s name was ‘Donovan Hughes,’ and it seems he was a ghost hunter from Whitefield. It’s the strangest thing. This is the second death in a month, but the list goes on if you expand the timeline. We have no leads, and can only do so much with the jurisdiction battle between us and the next county over. That’s why Mcginnis suggested calling you in.”

“Why is that?” Nancy asks before Sam or I can. She is scribbling away in her little notebook. I try to read what she is writing, but she angles the book so I can’t without being super obvious.

“This land sits right on the county line,” the sheriff answers, “Technically, it  _ is _ in our jurisdiction but some of the bodies have been found in those woods.” He points past the house and into the dense forest. “That’s Coos County.”

I open my mouth to ask a question, but again, this Nancy girl beats me to it. “And the house is literally  _ on  _ the line?” She gestures with her pen.

“Yes. The main house and the front yard are here in Grafton County. The cemetery and back woods are in Coos.”

_ Interesting. A jurisdiction battle. This could work in our favor.  _ I share a meaningful look with Sam.

“You don’t seem all that concerned about another death having happened, to be honest,” Nancy says bluntly.

_ Right to the point,  _ I think to myself, raising my eyebrows.  _ I like that in a woman. _

“You see as much as I’ve seen, kid, you learn to keep it all boxed out.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “To be honest, I am almost certain that it’s suicides, just because of the lack of evidence. Maybe something about the place. The deaths are always here around the property, and never… never natural.”

Sam and I glance at each other.

Nancy once again beats us to the punch. “How do you mean, ‘never natural?’”

“Well, natural as in, how another human could possibly have done it. The deaths… see… they’re near-decapitations.”

That catches my attention. Sam jerks his head forward. “Decapitations?” he checks.

“Well, yeah,” the Sheriff says. “ _ Nearly  _ decapitated. Like, ah, who is it? Nearly-Headless Nick from that movie. And it gets odder. The blood pattern never shows any obstructions--meaning no one has ever been in, um,  _ spatter _ distance--and there’s no weapon.”

“That  _ does _ qualify as, ah, weird,” Sam muses, giving me a significant look.  _ Definitely something supernatural. _

“Also, it gets weirder,” the sheriff continues, “Hughes had a video camera on him, but the tape’s gone. Either he forgot to load it--”

“Or someone took it,” I finish.

“Has anyone combed the woods?” Nancy continues.

“We have,” Reeves continues, looking over at Nancy, “at least on our side of the county line, and the Coos County fellas have done their part. But we haven’t found anything. That’s why… well, that’s why we need you.”

_ What are we? Chopped liver? _

“I’ll do what I can,” Nancy says, closing her notebook. 

“Well, here’s the case file. I got everything together for you.” The sheriff pulls out a large yellow envelope and hands it to Nancy. “If there’s anything missing, let me know and I’ll do my best to help ya out.”

“Thank you!” Nancy replies gleefully, acting like she has just received the most wonderful Christmas present.

I force a smile on my face, a little irritated that we couldn’t ask any questions ourselves. “Can, uh, we get one of those?” I ask, gesturing to the case file.

“If you come down to the station after we’re through here, I can get a copy for you gentlemen,” the sheriff says with a smile. “...Well, I’ll leave you three to it. The witnesses inside were the ones who found the body. I’ve got to get back to the station.” He nods and walks away. Sam and I turn to Nancy, but she is already almost to the front doors.

I race after her. She’s completely out of my league, but what do I have to lose? I mean, I have two months left, so I might as well try. “Nancy, right?” I say as I catch up. 

She stops to look at me. 

“That’s your car over there,” I continue, “the convertible?” 

“...Yes, it is. Why?” 

“I’m somewhat of a car enthusiast myself. The Impala’s mine,” I state casually. “Maybe after we do all this,” I twirl my pointer-finger and look around before turning my attention back to her, “we could talk cars, maybe get some dinner, and drive each other’s?” I smirk and quickly look her over, hoping the innuendo isn’t lost on her. 

She smiles at me. A good sign. My heart beats a little faster as she gets closer, barely inches away.

“Even if I wasn’t taken,” she tells me, jabbing her finger into my shoulder, “I would say I was. Let’s keep it professional, shall we?  _ Agent  _ Wood?” 

My grin drops.

She turns away, walking at a clip pace towards the front door. My cheeks burn in embarrassment, but I can’t help but watch her rear. The sashaying, God, the  _ sashaying. _ I swear she must be doing it on purpose just to taunt me. Am I drooling? Jesus Christ. I jerk myself out of my trance to wipe the edge of my mouth just in case.

Sam appears at my side, trying--and failing--to stifle a laugh. “Did I hear that right? Did my brother, the  _ king _ of getting women, just get rejected?”

“Shut up,” I say quietly. “Let’s just focus on the job.”

“Like Nancy said, right?” Sam starts, a big grin on his face. “ _ ‘Let’s keep it professional, shall we?’ _ ” he says in a horrible, high-pitched impression of the P.I.

“Shut  _ up _ .” I punch him in the shoulder to get him to stop. Sam simply laughs.  _ I am never going to live this down. _ I start to go after her, but Sam grabs my arm. 

“Dude. In all seriousness though.  _ Did you hear who her dad was _ ?”

“Something-something Drew, right?”

“ _ Carson  _ Drew. As in the big-shot, internationally-known lawyer?”

I pause, wondering why he feels the need to tell me this.

_ “If we aren’t careful here,” _ Sam warns, voice getting lower with every syllable,  _ “We are in some deep shit. We need to find a way to cut her off before anything happens.” _

_ “We’re FBI agents, Sammy,” _ I whisper back,  _ “She  _ has _ to listen to us. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” _

Sam replies with a grimace. I glare at him before stalking into the house. We are going to be fine. We just have to do what we always do: act the part. 

In the foyer, there are two men in neon orange vests. They are holding hard hats, and are crammed uncomfortably on a couch that is clearly too small for both of them to be on.

Nancy is already talking to them.  _ Would it kill her to take a breath? How many questions can a girl ask?  _ I am ready to patiently wait for her to finish with her boring-ass questions, but Sam has other ideas.

“We would also like to ask you a few questions,” he interrupts, discreetly showing his badge. 

I wave my own badge at the witnesses' faces, while also slyly making sure Nancy is able to see it. That has to earn  _ some  _ points with her, being a man with a badge. Certainly can’t hurt.

She just raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

I am getting  _ nowhere  _ with her.

Sam continues, attention fully on the witnesses, “You didn’t happen to see anything weird that night, did you?” 

The men exchange a look. The one on the left speaks, “Weird?”

“Yeah,” Sam goes on, “flickering lights, cold spots, smell any sulfur?” 

I try to ignore the questioning look Nancy gives us. But damn it, she is good at this, and we must seem like some real, well,  _ oddballs _ asking these questions. If her opinion of me is  _ already _ low, this can’t be helping.

“Uh,” the guy on the right begins, “Not that last one I don’t think, but we definitely saw some lights flickering. The dude’s flashlight for one. That might’ve been it. Not many lights around to judge by.”

“Yeah,” the other guy adds, “And it did get cold,  _ really  _ cold, right over by that staircase as we went outside to call 911.”

Sam nods. “Okay, good.” Looks like our mysterious benefactor was correct, we  _ are _ working with a ghost. 

I glance at Sam, his expression mirrors mine. We are both thinking the same thing: We have to get Nancy off this job. And fast.


	6. Chapter 4 - Nancy

**Chapter 4 - Nancy**

* * *

_ Lockwood Estates _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

**A Half Hour Previously...**

The entrance to the property is marked by an icy van, which is emblazoned with “Whitefield Ghost Hunters” in a red horror font on the side. The tires are all flat, and the body of the vehicle has sunk into a low drift of snow.

I make a mental note to check it out later.

The tires of my car bite into the gravel and dirt as I drive past the gates. The circular driveway is crammed with police cruisers, a coroner’s truck, as well as a collection of other emergency vehicles. The flashing lights mix with the bright sun above, and would give me a headache if I hadn’t trained my gaze over the years. 

I park right at the door. I am unsure if they were saving the space for someone else, or for perhaps foot traffic, but there is still plenty of room around my car. 

Before I even turn off the engine, I write my dad a text to let him know I have arrived safely and send it off, hoping it will alleviate any worries he has.

Although, he knows that I do this. I regularly keep information from him to keep him from worrying so much. I can’t blame him, but at the same time, I am almost twenty-two years old.

I turn my attention to the chaos surrounding the manor. I note that all of the officers are wearing heavy winter coats and are shrugged over for warmth.

My eyes catch on yet another car that is entering the property: a shiny black 1967 Chevy Impala. A truly beautiful contemporary car to mine.  Two men in dark overcoats step out. The shorter one nudges the other and points at my car excitedly. That is the usual reaction to my car. My dad always warns me to be careful with it, and to treat it nice, and it will do the same.

I smile a little at how excited the guy seems to be. I love to elicit such a happy reaction from people. I remove the keys from the ignition and get out.

A sharp, chilled breeze hits me in the face, blowing my hair into my face. I spit hair out of my mouth and quickly pull it back into a high ponytail. And, deciding it is far too chilly for my hoodie, I grab a thick  _ Emerson College  _ sweater from my back seat. It’s the one I stole--er,  _ borrowed _ \--from Ned. I struggle for a moment pulling it on, hoping dearly that no one is watching me. My thick leggings are little help against the harsh temperatures, but there is nothing I can do about that now. The outfit was perfect for the upper thirties and forties of Hartford and all the gas stations I stopped at. What is the deal here?

The two men from the Impala are at the edge of the crime scene tape on the porch, irritably talking to who I assume to be the sheriff. Crossing my arms for warmth, and pulling the long sleeves over my hands, I crunch through snow as I go to investigate.

The sheriff glances at me, and then his face lights up in recognition. He must have been to my website. 

“Great to finally meet you in person, Nancy,” the sheriff tells me, seemingly relieved for an excuse to cut off his previous conversation. I quickly push my sleeve up to shake his hand. Short but firm. He gives a good first impression. He nods at me. “Chief Mcginnis spoke very highly of you.”

“Nice to meet you as well,” I say with a smile. I am dying to know who these two men in overcoats are, and why they are hovering so close to the sheriff and me, but one thing at a time.

“The Chief has told me a lot about you and your case record. Exceedingly impressive. How many years now?”

“Officially? Three. Opened the business at nineteen. Before that I spent years working on my skills and building relationships in the professional world.”

The sheriff whistles in amazement. He gestures to the overcoats. “Oh, Nancy, let me introduce you to Agents McKellen and Wood.”

_ Agents? Like FBI agents? Damn it. _ I have worked with the FBI before. It went okay then, but I do prefer to do my investigations without being held up by bureaucracy. However, this isn’t the end of the world. I’ll just have to find a way to shake them and keep the case.

I turn to the shorter one first, the one who was eyeing my car earlier. He is about six foot, has light brown hair, and green eyes crinkled in a smile. But it is a smile I recognize all too well. One that indicates he is interested in more than saying “hi.”

“Agent Wood. But you can call me Dean,” he says with a wink.

“Ignore my partner,” the other one says. He is even taller than “Dean,” and is slouched slightly to compensate. His long hair is tucked neatly behind his ears. “Nancy, right?”

“Yes,” I say with a smile as we shake hands, “Nancy Drew. You’re Agent McKellen, right?”

He looks suddenly very concerned. He must recognize my name, and know that I stop at nothing to not only keep cases, but solve them. I have been around the world more times than I can count, and have solved so many cold cases that Chief McGinnis actually calls me “Nancy Cold-Case Drew.” My reputation tends to precede me, making most people nervous.

“Y-yes. I’m... Agent McKellen.” He stutters out, chewing on his lip. “So… ‘ _ Drew _ ,’ Any relation to, um,  _ Carson  _ Drew?”

I smirk. If they haven’t heard of me, they’ve heard of Dad. International lawyer extraordinaire, working some of the biggest cases of today. “Actually, he’s my father!” I say innocently, hoping that this knowledge will make them leave me to my case. “We work cases together sometimes. Do you know him?”

McKellen looks over at Wood, face pale. “Only by reputation.”

_ Good. _

I cock my head to see around him and watch as the body is rolled out of the house. “So what happened here?” I ask, pulling my notebook from my knapsack and holding my pen at the ready.

The Sheriff takes a step forward, thumbs in the belt loops of his pants, and jaw set. “The vic’s name was ‘Donovan Hughes,’ and it seems he was a ghost hunter from Whitefield.” He nods towards the van outside the gates that I noticed earlier. “It’s the strangest thing. This is the second death in a month, but the list goes on if you expand the timeline. We have no leads, and can only do so much with the jurisdiction battle between us and the next county over. That’s why Mcginnis suggested calling you in.”

“Why is that?” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Dean is trying to read what I am writing. I angle the notebook away, and he slumps, looking defeated.

“This land sits right on the county line. Technically, the house is in our jurisdiction but some of the bodies have been found in those woods.” He points past the house and into the dense forest. “That part of the property is in Coos County.”

“The property is literally  _ on  _ the line?” Both Overcoats keep trying to interject, but I don’t let them. I have my questions. They can ask theirs after me.

“Yes. The main house and the front yard are here in Grafton County. The cemetery and back woods are in Coos.”

The door slams shut on the coroner’s truck, jerking me away from thoughts of county development. “...You don’t seem all that concerned about another death having happened, to be honest,” I tell the sheriff, trying to keep any accusations out of my voice.

He gives a half-hearted chuckle. “You see as much as I’ve seen, kid, you learn to keep it all boxed out.” 

I nod thoughtfully.

He smirks sadly at me. “To be honest, I am almost certain that it’s suicides, just because of the lack of evidence. Maybe something about the place. The deaths are always here around the property, and never… never natural.”

“How do you mean, ‘never natural?’”

“Well, natural as in, how another human could possibly have done it. The deaths… see… they’re near-decapitations.”

I blink a couple of times.

McKellen tilts his head forward, his long hair coming untucked from behind his ear. “Decapitations?”

“Well, yeah,” the Sheriff says. “ _ Nearly  _ decapitated. Like, ah, who is it? Nearly-Headless Nick from that movie. And it gets odder. The blood pattern never shows any obstructions--meaning no one has ever been in, um,  _ spatter _ distance--and there’s no weapon.”

“That  _ does _ qualify as unnatural,” McKellen muses, giving his partner a significant look.

“Also, it gets weirder. Hughes had a video camera on him, but the tape’s gone. Either he forgot to load it--”

“Or someone took it,” Wood finishes.

“Has anyone combed the woods?” I ask.

“We have, at least on our side of the county line, and the Coos County fellas have done their part. But we haven’t found anything. That’s why… well, that’s why we need you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I assure him.

“Well, here’s the case file. I got everything together for you.” He hands me a thick manila envelope. “If there’s anything missing, let me know and I’ll do my best to help ya out.”

“Thank you!” I say with a smile, carefully stuffing the envelope into my knapsack to check out later.

“Can, uh, we get one of those?” Wood asks, pointing to the envelope, which is sticking partially outside of my bag. 

“If you come down to the station after we’re through here, I can get a copy for you gentlemen.” He claps his hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you three to it. We have a couple of people inside the building,” the sheriff jabs his thumb behind him, at the house, “They were the ones who found the body.” He looks right at me. “I’ve got to get back to the station. Let me know if you need anything.” He nods to me and walks away.

_ Time to get to work.  _ I have to move fast if I want to keep ahead of these FBI cronies.

Before the Overcoats can even process that the sheriff has left, I rush towards the door. I want to talk to the witnesses before everything gets taken out of my grasp.

The quick crunches of gravel alerts me that one of the agents is running to catch up. I try very hard not to sigh aloud.

“Nancy, right?” It’s Agent Wood.

Trying not to roll my eyes, and to give him the benefit of the doubt, I slow just enough to face him. He seems to expect me to say something, but I don’t. I know enough about interviewing tactics to not say more than I intend to. 

“That was your car out there,” he asks, pointing, “the convertible?”

“Yes, it is,” I say cautiously, “...Why?”

“I’m, ah, somewhat of a car enthusiast myself,” he says with a seductive smirk. “The Impala’s mine.” 

_ I know. I saw you drive up in it. _

“Maybe after we do all this,” he continues, gesturing to the crime scene, “we could talk cars, maybe get some dinner, and drive each other’s…?” he trails off, eyeing me up and down.

I blink, trying to remember the last time a guy was so blatantly obvious. I think fast, trying to determine a proper response to such a statement.

After a heartbeat, I give a wicked smile and approach him. “Even if I wasn’t taken,” I tell him, putting power into my voice and poking him sharply in the chest, “I would say I  _ was _ . Let’s keep it professional, shall we?  _ Agent  _ Wood?”

His face comically drops, and I hope dearly he has learned his lesson. I whip around and walk at a quick pace to the door, leaving Dean standing where he was, looking lost. I smirk to myself.

The main room is filled with CSI. Dried blood stains surround the point of death like dirt from a meteor crater. Based on the white tape left behind, the body was found with the head pointing ninety degrees from where it should. A truly gruesome way to go.

In the hallway adjacent, wrapped in shock blankets and squashed together on a tiny loveseat, are two men in hard hats and reflective vests. The one on the left is skinny and young, barely my age, if that. He is staring at the crime scene with a haunted look. The other is much older, maybe my dad’s age. He has a fuller physique and a thick, brown beard.

“Hello, my name is Nancy Drew,” I say, extending my hand out to the man on the left.

“Gerald Marks,” he says, shaking my hand. His skin is like ice.

“Eric Hattingson,” the other says. His handshake is firmer.

I pull up a dusty chair, take a seat directly across from them, and pull out my notebook. “Do you mind if I record this conversation?” I ask, pulling my voice recorder out of my bag and showing it to them. 

“Of course not,” Hattingson says, “Anything I can do to help.” 

“Same,” Marks says with a nod of agreement.

I nod with a smile, turning on the recorder and clipping it to my pocket. “I’m just here to get a quick statement from you two,” I say kindly, “I know you’ve already had to talk to the police. I’ll try and be quick.”

“‘Preciate it,” Marks says with a quick nod.

“You two were the ones who called 911?” I ask.

“Yes,” Hattingson tells me, “We come out to the area sometimes for powerline work. We saw the guy’s car out front on the road and decided to investigate.”

“The van?” I check.

“Yeah,” Hattingson says, “The ghost hunting one. From Whitefield maybe?”

“Whitefield?”

“It’s a town a little ways up north,” he explains, “Just far enough away to not know about Lockwood.”

“How do you mean?”

Hattingson sighs. “Everyone knows that, at night, this place is haunted as hell. No one survives the night. Very few are stupid enough to try.” He gestures at the crime scene.

“The gates were forced open, and we were worried,” Marks says, looking down at his hands.

“Forced open?” I say.

“The chain on the lock was cut,” Hattingson elaborates, “like someone came through with bolt cutters or something. Not sure. To be honest, we weren’t paying too much attention to that at that point. The front door of the manor was open and we could see a flashlight beam. When we went closer to investigate, well...” he gestures to the crime scene behind me.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about the scene?” I ask.

“Besides the  _ headless  _ guy?” Marks exclaims shrilly.

“It’s always been cold here,” Hattingson says, taking off his hard hat and running a hand through his hair. “But when we showed up, it was below freezing. In town it was in the thirties, maybe forties, but as soon as we got near the property it dropped to below freezing. Almost subzero.” 

“Is that odd? For the area I mean?”

“It’s been pretty mild the past few days up here. It should have been the same temperature of the town. Or close.”

“All I know is it got  _ cold _ ,” Marks says, rocking back and forth slightly.

“We checked the temp on the truck’s dash before we got out,” Hattingson continues, “And it wasn’t like we were showin’ up in the middle of the night or anything. This was just a few hours ago. At… what was it, Gery? About noon?”

Marks nods in agreement.

_ That’s about when the sheriff contacted me,  _ I think to myself.

“Do you remember anything else?” I ask gently.

“Well,” Marks starts, swallowing hard, “the whole reason we came out here in the first place was because of the call,” Marks says.

“Call?” I ask, leaning forward. 

Very unfortunately, McKellen and Wood choose this exact moment to show up and butt in.

“We would also like to ask you a few questions,” McKellen interjects, pulling out his FBI badge and showing it to Hattingson and Marks. Both witnesses visibly tense. I catch a glimpse of Dean’s FBI badge as he also shows it off, and my heart skips. Every tip Dad has given me over the years about fake credentials comes to the surface in a momentary thrill of panic.  _ That is not a real badge.  _

I blink and look away, trying not to let on that I know. Wood is on my left, and McKellen is on my right, both standing and towering over me. I cannot just slip away. I snap my notebook shut to keep my notes private. 

_ What should I do? _

I decide to wait it out a bit. If this whole thing was orchestrated by the sheriff, I don’t want to show all my cards at the beginning of the game. I will have to be careful how I play this.

_ Be careful who you trust _ , my dad has always said,  _ Your mom slipped up once. Once. And I couldn’t do anything to save her. _

I take a deep breath.

_ Stay calm. _

“You didn’t happen to see anything weird that night, did you?” McKellen says importantly, putting his hands in his coat pockets.

_ I already asked them that. _

“Weird…?” Marks asks uncertainly.

“Yeah. Flickering lights, cold spots… smell any sulfur?”

_ What?  _ The witnesses and I share a very confused look.

“Uh…” Hattingson starts, “Not that last one I don’t think, but we definitely saw some lights flickering. The dude’s flashlight for one. That might’ve been it. Not many lights around to judge by.”

“Yeah,” Marks says, “And it did get cold,  _ really  _ cold, right over by that staircase as we went outside to call 911.”

“Okay, good,” McKellen says with a nod.

_ What on earth was that about? It sounds like the type of questions Savannah Woodham would ask while-- _

...ghost hunting.

Some officers appear, taking the witnesses outside. I stay seated as the frauds move away to talk in low voices. My mind whirs rapidly.

_ Who are these people? _

I have seen plenty of characters in my line of work. From concerned family to friendly introverts to harmless jocks with chips on their shoulders. I have met and interacted with certifiably crazy (and some were indeed certified) people. Private investigators, detectives, cops, international crime forces, and lawyers. On the other end, thieves, arsonists, and even my fair share of murderers. 

But these two.

I have met ghost hunters before. Ones who truly believed in their work to the point where even I got a chill down my spine at their stories, such as Savannah. I respect them and their work, as their “ghost hunting” tips have helped me solve real cases. EVT has helped me eavesdrop on entire properties. Looking for “cold spots” has helped me find secret passages. Investigating “hauntings” has helped me find exactly where culprits don’t want me to be. How better to scare people away from a secret than to use a fake ghost to protect it?

But  _ these _ two. Were they just trying to scare off the witnesses? Why would anyone dress up as FBI agents just to then be talking about flickering lights and cold spots? Do they think that the culprit is messing with the wiring of the house? Did they know the vic?

I slowly get up out of my seat as the fake agents whisper hurriedly to each other in the corner. What should I do?  _ What should I do? _

I can call the sheriff back immediately, I can get the attention of one of the officers still on-scene, I can just shout out the truth. But none of those options seem all too great. 

My hand bumps into the voice recorder on my belt, and a flash of inspiration hits me.

I glance over at the frauds, both of whom seem oddly interested in my actions. Innocently, I go over and pretend to examine the fireplace. I check to make sure the recorder is still running, and grip my pen and notebook while pretending to take notes.

Now I wait.


	7. Chapter 5 - Sam

**Chapter 5 - Sam**

* * *

_ Lockwood Estates _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

Dean grabs my elbow and yanks me aside as soon as we finish questioning the witnesses. Or, rather, after Nancy and I questioned them and Dean brooded over striking out with her. “So, what are we going to do about her?” Dean hisses. I glance up at Nancy. She has started to look around the crime scene. 

“I don’t know,” I sigh. She seems pretty smart, and from the way she handled Dean, pretty determined, too. Persuading her to leave won’t be easy. “I think I’ll try and  _ talk _ to her.” I open my jacket to show Dean the pocket with my badge. He raises his chin in acknowledgement. I let out a small cough. “You should, uh, probably not come with me. Don’t think you guys started out on the right foot.” I can’t help but smirk. 

He glares. “Yeah. Laugh it up, Sammy.” He pulls out the EMF meter from his inside pocket. “I’ll be upstairs.” 

I turn back to Nancy and walk towards her. She is inspecting the mantle of the fireplace for some reason, completely ignoring the much more interesting blood splatters on the other side of the room. I clear my throat. “Ms. Drew.”

She looks up at me. I am used to being much taller than people I meet, but sometimes it still takes me off-guard, such as now. Short people can have this… hellish  _ fire _ in their eyes when they look up at me, and God help me, Nancy has it. “You can call me Nancy,” she says with a short bite. She is holding her journal and a pen with white knuckles, as if she is upset that I dared interrupt. I glance at the fireplace. Is she taking notes of something? I can’t see anything worth noticing, besides the solid inch of dust.

I swallow.  _ Get a move on, Sam. _ “Look. Nancy...” I pull out my badge. “You’re going to have to leave this case to the feds.” 

A small smile appears on her face as she looks at my badge. That isn’t good. I quickly put it away. 

I swallow. “What we’re investigating—”

“What  _ are _ you investigating?” She stares up at me pointedly. 

“Um, I can’t say exactly.” She looks unconvinced. “It’s classified,” I try. “And dangerous. You can’t be working on it with us.” I have her full attention now. But there is...something in her eyes. The fire has been replaced with determination. It’s as if telling her to get off the case has only made her more interested. “Sorry,” I add. I’m not completely sure why. 

“I saw you use those badges to get into the crime scene earlier,” she begins. “Impersonating an officer of the law is no small offense. Especially when you do it to get inside the crime scene of a murder.”

My heart skips.  _ Shit. _ “...What are you talking about?” I try, smiling at her.

She just raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. “Please spare me the theatrics. You have fake badges, yes?”

“Of course not. Why would you even say that.”

She rolls her eyes.

I work my jaw, chewing on my lower lip. I feel my expression solidify into a fearful snarl. I lower my voice. “Fine. Yes, we have fake badges. How did you know?”

“My dad, the lawyer?” she prompts, as if I’d forgotten. “He’s taught me a few things.” 

This is bad. This is really bad. My mind is going 100 miles an hour. “What’s your angle here?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“What’s yours?” She crosses her arms, looking self-satisfied.

“Solve the case. Same as you.”

“Is that so?”

“It  _ is _ .”

We stare at each other for several seconds. I am breathing heavily, trying not to panic.

Maybe we can still work this job. Try and sneak around Nancy. But what if she tells the police about us? It’s not like we’ve never been on the run from the law, especially nowadays, but it is something I would like to avoid if possible.

I mean, we could try and go behind the cops’ backs, but I am not sure how long we could pull that off. Even if we somehow managed to escape the police, her connection to her father alone damns us. If we get kicked from this job, we will have to get more hunters to work on it as soon as possible. But who knew how many more people this ghost would kill before then?

Thinking fast, I glance up the stairs, but Dean is nowhere in sight. I look back at Nancy. She has no proof that we aren’t Feds. That should give us enough time to get out should she decide to go blabbing. Until then, we just have to keep her happy.

I hold my hands out placatingly. “We don’t want to cause any trouble, okay?” She looks unconvinced. I take a deep breath. “We’re here to work on this case,” I say again, “Same as you.” 

She slowly and deliberately slides her knapsack from her shoulder and puts away her notebook and pen. “Who are you? Really?” She lets her now-free hand drift to her side. My immediate thought is that she is armed, and I instinctively place my own hand under my coat.

But I am wrong. She is unclipping a small device from her pocket.

“Uh…” I chuckle a little. My gaze slides from her face to her hand as I relax slightly. Thank God. The last thing we needed was another shootout incident. “What are you holding?”

She slowly raises her hand, without breaking eye contact or changing expression, revealing something I recognize instantly. My nervous smile drops in horror.

A voice recorder.

And it has been running this entire time.

_...And _ I openly admitted that we are impersonating FBI Agents.

Dean and I are absolutely and unequivocally, fucked.

“I--” I start, hands turning to ice in growing panic. Honestly, I would be impressed if this wasn’t happening to me, but Dean and I aren’t exactly on good terms with the law. The only reason we are even free is because we were lucky enough Agent Henrikson was exposed to the supernatural and was basically forced to believe us. On top of that, Dean and I are officially dead. No one is searching for dead men, but if Nancy’s tape gets out, we’re screwed. I guess Dean wouldn’t be in trouble for long since… I force myself back to my current predicament.

I swallow, a thought having just occurred to me. Could she be a demon?

“Christo,” I mutter, scratching behind my ear.

Her eyes narrow in confusion. “...Wh--Did you just say ‘Christo?’ What is that, a cuss word?”

_ Okay, not a demon then.  _ “Nothing, never mind,” I say awkwardly. “Look, can we, uh, come to some sort of agreement?”

Nancy quirks an eyebrow and angles the recorder so that the plastic casing catches the overhead light. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t feel the need to show this to anyone, if you were to say, do something for me.”

“...And what would that be?” I ask hesitantly, a pit of ice forming in my stomach. What could she possibly want from us? She seems pretty capable by herself. Why does she need us? From her perspective, we would only get in the way. Besides, she seems to have the police on her side.

_ Where the fuck is Dean? _

She cocks her head with a small smirk. “Tell me what you know. I can tell you know something the cops don’t.” She glances from between me and the recorder. “Those questions you were asking earlier. About the lights and the cold spots. Let me guess, you’re ghost hunters? But ghost hunters that are hiding behind fake FBI badges, meaning you’re pretty determined to keep others out of the picture. What’s the story, ‘McKellen?’”

Wow. Nothing gets past her. That is surprisingly and disturbingly accurate. Is she another Hunter? I had initially dismissed the thought when I met her, but now I’m not completely sure. She certainly knows enough about ghost hunting, but gives the impression of being far too prim and proper. A little dorky. We might even be friends under different circumstances. She doesn’t seem the cold-blooded Hunter type. Not nearly as hardened as me or Dean. 

“And… you aren’t… a Hunter?” I ask uncertainly.

She stiffens as if offended--maybe she is. “No,” she says shortly. “Now answer my question.”

I swallow nervously. I can’t take my eyes off the recorder, still running in her hand. Proof is Dean’s and my worst enemy when it comes to the supernatural and our escapades in hunting. We already have demons chasing after us, we don’t need to add cops to the list. Again. 

In the wrong hands, the results would be catastrophic. Hell, the results  _ have  _ been catastrophic. We can’t go through this again. Not to mention that this girl, this PI prodigy, with her lawyer of a father and connections with the police, could make things  _ very  _ difficult for us in the future. Well, very difficult for me.

If we get out of this, I’m definitely stealing this trick.

“Did you know that these new models can send clips of audio instantly to up to fifty recipients at a time?” Nancy says nonchalantly, looking down at the recorder, “I wonder how quickly the Sheriff will get back here when he knows that the two ‘FBI agents’ are frauds and are tromping around on his crime scene?”

_ Jesus Christ, can things get any fucking worse. _

The stairs creak loudly as Dean walks down towards us. He nods at me, signaling we have EMF upstairs, but then realizes how tense I look. He hurries down the stairs.

Nancy glances between us. 

“You found something?” she asks as Dean reaches the end of the stairs and joins us. 

I grit my teeth. “Yeah, he found something,” I tell her. There is no point in lying now. She basically knows everything. Who knows? Maybe being honest with her is the key to getting out of this situation. I get the impression she doesn’t like being lied to. “EMF readings. Electro-magnetic frequencies. If there’s a high reading, it means there’s a ghost nearby. Or, there  _ was _ a ghost nearby.”

“Yes, I know what EMF is. I also know EMF meters are affected by power lines.” She nods to the window where power lines stand outside the house.

I close my eyes and sigh. 

“...You’re a Hunter?” Dean asks her in disbelief. I get the assumption. Why else would I have explained what he found?

“No,” she restates firmly. 

Dean glances at me. I see the unsaid question:  _ Are you okay? _ I subtly shake my head a fraction of an inch, glancing down at the recorder. “It’s a hypothetical funkytown down here, Dean,” I tell him, nodding my head at Nancy.

My brother’s eyes widen in comprehension, and he takes a step back. He lets his hand drift to the gun hidden at his side, sliding into a defensive position.

Nancy notices his sudden change in demeanor. “I’ve met my fair share of ghost hunters,” she explains, “Although they typically don’t use fake FBI badges.”

“You  _ told _ her?” Dean accuses, eyes still wide.

“He didn’t tell me anything, I didn’t already know,” Nancy answers for me. “I can tell a fake badge when I see one.”

I blink slowly to clear my head. “Dean,” I tell him, “She has a recording.”

Dean’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“That we have fake badges,” I explain. 

Dean’s gaze snaps to her. He flicks his coat back and wraps his hand around the handle of his gun, but a cop loudly creaks down the stairs just as he does so, reminding him of his surroundings. He slowly relaxes so as to not draw attention. I glare at him and shake my head.  _ Really, Dean?  _ I can’t believe he was about to just shoot some random girl, in a crime scene, surrounded by policemen.

Never mind. I can.

Nancy doesn’t even bat an eye at Dean. “What are your real names? Why are you here?”

I stare at the voice recorder in her hand. If that thing really does remotely transmit audio clips, Dean and I are in some serious trouble. We need to come up with something, and fast.

“Let’s uh, just calm down here,” I say placatingly, mind racing, “Can we just… explain? Recorder off?”

She stares at me for several long, painful seconds. Finally, she clicks the ‘off’ button and shoves the recorder in her pocket. She crosses her arms. “Fine. Explain away.”

“My real name is Sam Winchester,” I say, hoping to earn some trust from her by telling her my actual name. “And that’s my brother Dean.” I wave my hand in Dean’s direction. “We’re Hunters,” I say slowly, exchanging a glance with my brother. He gives an almost imperceptible nod. “My brother and I… we… travel the country, banishing ghosts and demons and… well, that… kind of stuff,” I finish lamely.

Nancy blinks, unimpressed.

Another officer saunters through the scene. All three of us automatically shut up and act natural, watching him. Nancy rolls her head to look back at me after he’s gone.

“Why the theatrics?” she asks, nodding at the suits and at the old EMF reader in Dean’s hand.

“We take our job very seriously,” I tell her, “We just want to keep people safe.”

“By hunting…  _ ghosts. _ ”

She is definitely a skeptic.

“By doing what we need to do to make sure there  _ are  _ no ghosts,” I try, shrugging a little at Dean. “Something is killing these people. We are just doing what we need to do to make sure it stops.”

Nancy and I stare at each other for a long time. I try not to swallow nervously.

“...Did you know the ghost hunter who died?” she asks, nodding at the crime scene. “Donovan Hughes?”

Dean snorts. It’s his turn to be offended. “No,” he tells her, “That guy was in a whole different profession than we are. Trust me.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “Alright fine,” she finally says, clicking her pen open. “Do what you ‘need to do’ and then go. But if I find out you aren’t who you say you are, or if I find out you messed with this investigation in any way, this recording goes public.”

She glares at each of us with that short-person-glare-of-fiery-death, and then stalks out of the room, taking more notes.

I catch Dean staring at her ass again. I smack him in the arm, giving him a disbelieving look.

“It was just… a reflex,” he explains lamely.

I drag my hand down my face, taking a deep breath. We need to do this job fast and get out before Nancy changes her mind. “Just… show me where the EMF was.”


	8. Chapter 6 - Nancy

**Chapter 6 - Nancy**

* * *

_ Lockwood Estates _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

The brothers are making a lot of noise up there. It would be impressive if it weren’t so annoying.

It’s funny. How many times that recording trick has worked for me. Thanks, Rentaro. 

I drum my pen against my notebook, trying to decide what to do now. Maybe I should search the property for clues. Or maybe I can run down to the sheriff’s office and get more information on past deaths. I flip through my notebook to the case’s task list I made, checking off things I’ve already done (which isn’t as much as I’d like, sadly).

_ Get to the crime scene. _ Check!  _ Let Dad know I got here safe.  _ That’s finished.  _ Meet Sheriff Reeves.  _ Check.  _ Question any suspects/witnesses on-scene.  _ Done.

The rest looms in front of me.  _ Investigate past deaths. Look into manor history. Search the grounds. Search the house. Go down to the station for more information. Talk to the victim's peers. Do a background check on Sam and Dean.  _ Etcetera, etcetera.

Not to mention that at some point I need to check into my hotel and get something to eat.

A loud thump, as if someone knocked over a dresser, echoes through the house, disturbing dust and making me jump. I glare up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell those two are doing up there. 

I check the time. Might as well do as much as I can at the estate while I’m here. Not to mention the fact that I am wary of leaving Sam and Dean here without some sort of supervision.

Plus, while they’re preoccupied upstairs, I can snoop in their car.

\----

I nod to a few of the cops as they start to clear out, silently cursing their presence. Breaking into one’s car is generally viewed as a bad move.

While I wait for them to be gone, I lean against my own vehicle and grab the envelope containing the case file from my bag. 

“ _ What have we got here _ ,” I breathe to myself, pulling out the sheaf of papers.

There are names, dates, and locations of the deceased, along with full-color images. I wrinkle my nose, hoping dearly that these don’t haunt my dreams tonight.

Each vic’s information is stapled together for me, alleviating any worry that I will get things mixed up.

About half of them were found in the woods behind the house, based on a crude map of the property, which has x’s drawn on them in red marker, as well as exact coordinates.

“This will be helpful,” I say aloud to myself, drawing the attention of an officer. I smile embarrassedly at her as she walks away with a confused look on her face.

While I wait for the last patrol car to pull away, I start typing in waypoints on my GPS, while also noting my current location for reference.

Finally, right around the time I finish, the last car drives out the gates and vanishes down the road.

I saunter over to the Impala’s driver door, pulling on my cloth gloves and grabbing my lockpicking kit. I kneel down in the gravel to pick the door lock. It takes a good minute, but eventually I hear the click I’m looking for.

“ _ What else are you guys hiding _ ?” I muse to myself, climbing inside. There isn’t much in plain sight, besides some takeout cups and old receipts. I slide over on the bench seat to investigate the glove compartment, which only has the usual insurance papers--nothing else of interest.

I get out and walk around to the trunk, glancing around to make sure I am still alone, and pick the lock just as easily as the driver door.

The interior of the trunk seems normal enough, with a couple of limp duffel bags. I chew my lip, and on a hunch, pull up the bottom panel where usually, there would be a spare tire.

“Oh my God,” I can’t help but say as I open it. There are guns of all shapes and sizes, as well as various accelerants, salt cans, crucifixes, stakes, charms from all kinds of religions, an axe, extra ammo, etcetera.

There is a box near the front, which I cautiously open. Inside, are a plethora of IDs, badges, and everything in between. All the pictures have either Dean or Sam’s face on it, and most have their first name, but they all have different last names and occupations. Medical Doctors, Homeland Security Agents, Department of Wildlife Representatives, US Marshals, Student IDs from various colleges, Newspaper Reporters, Police Badges….

My throat catches, and I stuff them all back in the box.

I swallow. There’s normal ghost hunting, and then whatever this is.

Slowly, I close the trunk again, looking up at the house to make sure they haven’t been watching me, and then back up into the trees so I can examine the grounds. My feet crunch on icy snow and twigs.

I take a deep breath once I am out of eyesight of the front windows.

I need to call the Hardy brothers about this. 

I get them on speed dial and hold the phone to my ear.

_ “Hi, you’ve reached Frank--” _

_ “And Joe!” _

_ “We can’t come to the phone right now--” _

_ “Because we’re probably doing something awesome.” _

_ “But leave your name and number, and we will get back to you as soon as possible.” _

_ “Stay frosty!” _

The phone beeps. “Hey Frank, hey Joe. It’s Nancy. Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s important.”

I snap the phone shut. 

\----

I check the GPS coordinates again, and then the case file. One of the bodies was found here, just a few yards from the back door of the house. It doesn’t make sense. None of these locations seem at all odd, or interesting. Each body was found at a different distance from the house, nowhere near any of the estate buildings or the private graveyard, and have nothing in common besides being on the property and nearly decapitated. No trace of a weapon or motive has ever been found.

_ “What the hell is happening here?”  _ I mutter aloud to myself, slapping the case file against my thigh.

The faint trace of voices jerks me back to the present. I whirl around, taking a second to realize that it is just the Winchester brothers from the front yard. A flash of panicked realization hits me.

_ Wait a minute. I forgot to lock their car. _

I dash back around to the front of the house, but I am too late. The brothers are already in the Impala. I dig my hands in my hair and turn around, mind racing. I know better than this. I should have immediately locked everything back up, but now they know someone was snooping around. 

I dig my nails into my scalp, pacing back and forth. “ _ Maybe they didn’t notice _ ,” I breathe to myself, “ _ Maybe they’ll think they just left it unlocked _ .”

A desperate hope. But maybe it will all be okay.

My phone rings. I take a deep breath and pull it from my pocket. It’s the Hardy brothers.

“Hey Frank, hey Joe,” I say, shifting my weight foot to foot as I watch the Impala drive away. “I’ll get right to it. Do you still have those connections of yours?”

_ “Maaaaaybe,”  _ Joe says. I can almost see his teasing smile.  _ “What’s up?”  _ he asks, _ “Digging up information on an ex? Looking into professional rivals? Did someone deny you admittance to a theme park and now you want to know why?”  _ His voice gets faster with every syllable. 

I roll my eyes with a chuckle, trying to ignore my racing heart. “Oh I miss you, Joe.”

Frank jumps in.  _ “You may think that was just Joe being Joe, but there’s a story there. It involves a girl Joe liked but she was a professional rival of ours. They dated, he broke it off because it turned out she was… crazy. Apparently, the girl had some friends at the pier, and used them to keep Joe out of the park when we went there last week, just to get back at him.” _

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” I say honestly.

_ “I didn’t either, to be honest,”  _ Frank replies.

_ “Let’s just move on, please,”  _ Joe says, agitated.

_ “You brought it up, dude,”  _ Frank points out.

“Anyway,” I say, “I’m on a case in New Hampshire. There’s a couple of guys here who were pretending to be FBI agents. Turns out they are  _ not  _ FBI and they claim to be, uh...” I grimace, “hunting ghosts.”

_ “Awesome,”  _ Frank says sarcastically.

_ “Awesome!”  _ Joe says, non-sarcastically.

Frank sighs at his brother.  _ “So are you turning them in?” _ he asks me.

“Well, not yet. I kind of want to know more about who they are first. But I do have a recording of them admitting to the fake badges. Using that as leverage, I learned that their names are Sam and Dean Winchester, and they travel the country doing what they have to do to get to crime scenes so they can banish ghosts… or vampires, or whatever else.” I throw up my free arm, knowing how stupid it sounds.

_ “So they’re like your ghost-hunting friend, Savannah?” _ Joe asks.

“I’m pretty sure Savannah has never impersonated a federal agent,” I say, running a hand through my hair.

_ “And they just told you all this?”  _ Frank asks, incredulous.

“Well, yeah. I think I freaked ‘em out. I also found a bunch of IDs in the trunk of their car. Along with a lot, and I mean a  _ lot _ of aliases.”

_ “What makes you think Winchester is their actual name?” _

“It was the only last name they both had IDs for. They mentioned that they’re brothers. Also, it was the only name that didn’t have something attached like, ‘Homeland Security,’ ‘FBI,’ ‘Department of Wildlife,’ etcetera.”

_ “Nice. We’ll look into them for you, Nance.” _

“Thanks, Frank.”

_ “Be careful, though,”  _ Joe adds,  _ “Desperate people do funny things.” _

“Will do,” I promise.

We hang up.


	9. Chapter 7 - Sam

**Chapter 7 - Sam**

* * *

_ Lockwood Estates _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

The police begin to clear out of the mansion. They bag up the evidence and usher out the witnesses, leaving me and Dean alone. I can’t see Nancy now, but I can tell she isn’t completely onboard with Dean and I being “ghost hunters'' as she called us, but she  _ is _ letting us stay on the job, and I’m not going to miss any opportunities to finish it. We need to check on the EMF Dean found before Nancy runs into the ghost. 

“Upstairs?” I ask Dean. 

“Yup,” he answers. I can tell he has more to say, but being Dean, he holds it in. We have begun to march up the steps when he suddenly spits it out, “I’m just gonna say it, this job blows. Being compared to ghost hunters?  _ Ghost hunters _ ?!” 

There it is.

“No thanks to you,” I reply sharply. If Dean could see women as more than something to flirt with, we wouldn’t be in nearly as big of a mess. Nancy could actually be a huge help to us if we had her completely on our side. She is smart and witty, and clearly has a good track record at solving cases. Plus, having her dad as someone behind the law and on our side would really help us out. 

“Not helping, Sam.” 

I huff in annoyance but decide to change the subject, so we can actually get some work done. “Where did you find the EMF?” 

“The room at the end of the hallway.” 

We reach the top of the stairs, and I look down the hall. The threadbare rug barely covers the wood floor. Old paintings adorn the walls. One large painting hangs proudly at the end of the hall. As I follow Dean, I look at each painting. It’s a shame; these paintings probably cost a fortune, but they’ve been left to decay. They should be in a museum. We finally reach the room, and Dean ducks inside. I stare at the large painting I had seen from the top of the stairs. A stern man sitting elegantly and holding a Bible stares directly at me while a woman with soft features has her hands placed on his shoulders. They’re both wearing elaborate clothing, noting their high social standing. The bottom of the picture frame reads: 

_ Sherman and Edith Lockwood. _

“Sammy!” Dean calls. “You coming?” 

“Yeah,” I say, still staring at the painting. Finally, I tear my gaze away and glance inside. It’s a fairly large room, a bit bigger than our motel room, but not anything special to today’s standards. Everything is coated in a thick blanket of dust, making my sinuses tingle before I even enter. A bed stands in the far left corner next to a nightstand. The nightstand is planted under a large window. I can see the Impala from here. Dean is sifting through a large wardrobe which takes up almost all of the right wall. A desk is against the wall on my left next to a small washing basin. I vaguely wonder where in the room Sherman killed himself. 

As soon as I step in the room, it gets even colder. I blow out an experimental puff of air. I can see my breath. “Dean,” I say.

He looks up from the wardrobe. “Something is definitely here,” he states. He pulls the EMF from his coat pocket and turns it on. It rings out as every light glows red. He pockets it again, and we begin to rifle through Sherman’s room. The silence is deafening. The cold makes me shiver as I move to the desk. Stationary is centered on its dark brown wood, and a dried up inkwell is placed just to the right of the paper. The wide legs holding up the desk are made up of drawers, and I open each one. I routinely sift through each drawer’s contents, but something nags me. Why are people getting decapitated if Sherman Lockwood died via noose?

“Hey, Dean?” I ask. 

“Did you find something?” He looks away from the wardrobe. 

“No, there’s just…something off about this job,” I say uncertainly. “The sheriff said these deaths are decapitations. Why decapitations? Why not stranglings?”

“Does it matter? We got EMF in Sherman’s room, so a ghost is  _ clearly _ here, and  _ clearly  _ Sherman. Our job is just to get rid of him, not analyze how he’s icing people.”

“I know, but…something is just off about this whole thing.”

“Sammy. We for sure know there’s a ghost here, so let’s find it and get rid of it. The details will fix themselves.”

“I just…I don’t know, Dean.” I sigh as I turn my attention back to the desk. He is right that the little details didn’t matter, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is just...off. Pushing that aside, I continue to search the desk. I pull the chair out from underneath it to sit down when I notice something. There’s a small wooden box tucked under the right side of the desk. I grab it before placing it on top of the stationary. I try to open it, but it’s locked. The lock seems flimsy enough. I take my lockpick from my pocket and delicately place it into the keyhole, and adjust it as needed. I can tell I’m getting close to unlocking it. 

“Sam!” Dean yells. 

I spin around to see the stern face from the hallway painting staring directly at me. But unlike the painting, this face is pale with sunken eyes and stares at me with a blankness nothing alive can replicate. “Where’s my daughter?” he croaks dryly. 

I stare back. What is he talking about? “Uh…” 

Finding my response unsatisfactory, Sherman’s ghost swings an arm at me, and I go flying into the wardrobe, dropping my lockpick in the process. I hit the wardrobe hard and fall to the floor. I look up just in time to see Dean take a small salt shaker from his inside coat pocket and fling salt at the ghost. It flickers and disappears. 

Dean turns to me. “Are you okay?” 

I slowly stand up. I’ll have a few bruises later, but nothing unexpected. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Dean nods then looks at the desk. “What were you doing? Because he didn’t seem to like it.” 

I walk back over to the desk. “I was trying to unlock that,” I say while grabbing my lockpick from the floor.

Dean picks up the box and inspects it. “Maybe we should bring this back to the motel. We don’t want to be interrupted again.” 

I nod in agreement. “Good idea.” I follow him out the door and back down the hallway. We creak down the stairs. It’s empty.  _ I guess Nancy left, _ I think as we reach the doors. The cold outside air blasts us as we step through the doors and make our way to the Impala. Nancy’s car is still parked next to ours. Where is she? I didn’t see her inside. We get to the car, and I automatically pull on the passenger door handle open as Dean gets out his keys. The door opens. I look up at him over the roof of the car. “Hey man, did you leave the door unlocked?”

He looks up, keys in hand, and then sees my door, hanging open. “No I did  _ not _ .” We stare at each other for a split second, and both dash to the trunk. Dean yanks it open.

Everything still seems to be in place, but there is a knot in my stomach. “Are you  _ sure _ you locked the car?” I check, box still in my hands.

“I swear to God, dude.”

I look around. Could Nancy have done it? But if she had, wouldn’t she have taken things?

With a loud sigh, Dean slams the trunk shut and runs a hand through his hair.

“Well, nothing’s missing, right?” I say cautiously, “And we still have this thing to look through, right?” I smile uncertainly, holding up the box.

Dean stands there for several seconds, hands splayed on the trunk. “Yeah,” he finally says, shoving himself upright and stalking to the driver door.

As we drive away, I see Nancy walking from the side of the mansion back to its entrance. She stops to watch us drive away. I swallow, as we turn out of the property and she vanishes from sight.

Clearly, we need to be more careful around her.


	10. Chapter 8 - Nancy

**Chapter 8 - Nancy**

* * *

_ Perennial Boulevard _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

I drum my fingers on my steering wheel as I crawl through rush-hour traffic. Driving is when I get my best ideas about a case, and I can use all the inspiration time I can get.

Who are Dean and Sam? How did they manage to show up at the same time as I did? Why did they pretend to be FBI agents? What was their intention behind hiding their ghost hunting background?

Speaking of ghost hunters, there are just as many questions about the victim. Was he there to investigate the first death, or was it merely a coincidence that he showed up so soon afterwards? Why were his van’s tires slashed? How did someone get the drop on someone who hunts spirits for a living?

I take a deep breath and adjust my sitting position.

Why is Lockwood such a “haunted” place? And why have the deaths started up again? Why are so many people sneaking onto the property? I would think that if a place is filling up with dead people, I’d stay away.

Of course I say that, yet here I am.

I sigh. There  _ must  _ be something I am missing. Some kind of lore, some kind of local “common knowledge” that I’m missing. Why else would a killer hang out on one property… and still not get caught? Why else would all these people feel drawn to the place? I remember what Hattingson said about the place being “haunted as hell.” Why? What am I missing?

I turn into the parking lot for a place called “Lucy's Diner.”

Time to gain some local knowledge.

\----

“Can I get you anything else, Ms. Nancy?” the waitress asks kindly, setting down my ice water while my meal is being prepared. She is a plump, cheerful woman named “Dot.”

“Actually, I had a question,” I say, unwrapping a straw and putting it in the glass. I am sitting at the counter, the first open spot in the crowded, 50’s style diner. The smell of sizzling beef fills the air, and the chatter of customers is at a cheerful level. Hometown food and atmosphere at its finest.

“Name it dear,” she says, holding her notepad at the ready.

“It’s about something I heard in town… ‘Lockwood Estates?’” I watch her face for a reaction, and I get one.

Her smile fades, and her eyes glaze over. She slowly closes her notepad and puts it in her apron pocket, avoiding eye contact for a good five seconds. The man next to me gives me an odd look before quickly glancing away.

“‘Lockwood Estates,’ you say,” Dot says, crossing her arms.

“Yes,” I say, taking a sip of water, “I heard it was ‘haunted’ or something. Is that a local legend?”

The man next to me, still turned away, says, “More like local  _ fact _ , missy. Stay away from that manor if you want to stay alive.”

_ Ah, right to the point. Thank you, Diner Guy _ .

“What does he mean by that?!” I ask Dot in a fake, alarmed tone. 

“It’s nothing dear. There’s been a lot of things happening up there lately. Police just got involved again, I heard. Stay away.”

“What Dot  _ means  _ to say is,” Diner Guy interjects, glaring at me, “That place is cursed, and has been since that maid o’ theirs was killed.”

“Maid?” I start. 

The woman to my left jumps in. “Bernie, you know that’s just a legend.”

“Isn’t all of this a legend?” Bernie declares, gesturing with his coffee and spilling some. “That maid, Caroline Walker, was killed by the owner of the manor, and her ghost has been haunting the place since.”

Dot hurriedly mops up the coffee spill and delivers someone else an order of steak fries, looking happy to leave the conversation.

“You heard wrong,” Diner Woman states, “It was the opposite. Maid killed owner, owner haunts maid until her dying day.”

“No I did  _ not  _ hear it wrong, Layla,” Bernie declares, angrily slurping coffee. “My facts are as straight as my spine after I went to the chiropractor last week!”

_ ‘Straight as my spine after I went to the chiropractor.’  _ That’s a fun one I’ll have to remember.

Their voices rise high enough that we have garnered attention from most of the restaurant. Even one of the chefs pokes her head out of the window with a disgusted look on her face. “You two are both wrong. Sherman killed Caroline, and then himself because they were in a relationship and Caroline threatened to tell the missus.”

“What kind of crackpot story are you selling?” Layla exclaims. “That is  _ not  _ what happened!”

“Well, then explain how they both died the same day, hm?”

Layla splutters a moment before shamefully returning to her chicken-fried steak.

The chef points at me with a spatula and winks. “That’s the official legend, since you seemed to have wanted to know. May have gotten more than you bargained for though, hm?”

I give a little laugh. “Thank you.”

Bernie nods at me. “Caroline Walker’s ghost haunts the grounds and gets revenge on those who seek to further humiliate her. That’s how all those deaths have happened.”

“Or Sherman’s ghost,” Layla mutters darkly, taking a sip of her tea.

“Sherman’s the owner of the manor?” I check.

“He  _ was _ ,” Bernie says, “Like two hundred years ago.”

“Caroline What’s-her-face was the maid,” Layla adds. “One of them, at least.”

“‘ _ Walker _ ,’” Bernie corrects.

“Is there somewhere I can find out more about this legend?” I ask, pulling out my notebook, “It’s… for school.”

“If you’re that interested, you might go to the local museum,” Bernie suggests. “It’s on Front Street.”

“Front Street, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Dot sets my platter of fish and chips in front of me. “An author also recently came into town,” she says lightly, “He’s writing a book on the estate. He might know more too.”

“Where can I find him?”

She pauses, and pulls out her notebook and scribbles down a number. “He came in about a month ago and annoyed us all to hell. Been planning out the book for a while but needed to be in town to gather more ‘knowledge’ or ‘evidence’ or what-have-you.” She slides the paper over to me, labeled with the name “Edward Velasquez.” “Give him a call.”

“Thank you, I will.” I smile up at her.

_ A month ago, huh? _

Layla huffs. “You ask me, he’s the reason the ghost is killin’ again,” she mutters darkly.

“Why is that?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Ask him why,” she says, smacking cash on the table and getting up. “If he’s got any spine left in him, he’ll tell ya.” She cocks an eyebrow before striding out of the diner.

I watch her for a few seconds, then turn back to my meal. Bernie and Dot are now determinedly avoiding my gaze.

The conversation has clearly run its course, so I pocket the number and pick up my fork.

\----

I pull the number for Edward Velasquez out of my bag, caressing my thumb over the paper in thought. Sitting at the desk chair in my hotel, I dial, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear. I lean back, holding my notebook at the ready.

_ “Hello?”  _ a man’s voice says on the other end.

“Hi, my name is Nancy Drew. Is this Edward Velasquez?” 

_ “It is indeed. What can I do for you, Ms. Drew?” _

“I heard you were writing a book about Lockwood Estates in Blackridge, New Hampshire. I got your number from Dot at Lucy's Diner.”

His voice rises excitedly,  _ “Do you have information for me?” _

“That depends,” I say, thinking fast, “Do you have any information you can share with  _ me _ ?”

There is a slight pause.

_ “What do you want to know?” _

“Well, first off, what made you want to write about Lockwood?”

_ “...I am writing about notable manor owners of the 17-1800’s all up and down the coast. Sherman Lockwood was known far and wide, and did many notable achievements throughout his life. He was an excellent business owner and was well-respected in the community. Perfect candidate for my book.” _

“I see.”

_ “My turn. What do you know about the hauntings?” _

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I tell him.

_ “Well, what’s your answer?” _

“I know there was a scuffle between Sherman Lockwood and one of the maids, Caroline Walker I believe. One of them killed the other, or a murder-suicide, and then one of their ghosts haunts the grounds, killing all who dare try to spend the night.”

_ “...That is a generally-accepted legend, yes.” _

“Your turn. What do  _ you  _ know of the legend?”

_ “I daresay that I know more than the general Blackridge resident because of my historical references, but not by much. You got pretty close.” _

“So this Sherman and Caroline are the, ah, ‘ghosts?’”

_ “Well, the story goes that the two of them were in a relationship, but Caroline wanted more of the cake, so to speak. She wanted Sherman to leave Edith--his current wife--for her.” _

“Oof,” I can’t help but say, writing furiously.

_ “...Yeah. They got into an argument. In those days it would have completely derailed his reputation if he were to leave his wife for one of ‘the help.’ Caroline threatened to bring their affair to light, and Sherman killed her, then himself after he realized what he had done.” _

“And that’s the historical tidbit?” I question.

_ “Yes. As far as what we know--I mean, that’s what’s been recorded. Sad to say that history can be fabricated. But we do have proof that Caroline and Sherman were killed, and on the same day.” _

“Is it possible that the wife found out about the affair and killed them both?” I ask.

_ “You’re sharp. She was indeed a major suspect way back when, but her alibi was confirmed by the town priest the night of the murders. She was doing church work in town with the priest’s daughter.” _

“Ah,” I say. “So Sherman and Caroline were alone.”

_ “Except for some other housemaids and such. They all confirmed a couple of variations of the same story, so we are fairly certain about the events I just told you about.” _

“Why only ‘fairly’ certain?” I ask.

_ “The time period. For example, if Edith Lockwood  _ had  _ killed them both, she would have had the help tell whatever version of the story she wanted.” _

“But since Edith had an airtight alibi…”

_ “...We are back to being ‘pretty darn sure,’”  _ Velasquez finishes. _ “Sure enough, in fact, that that’s the story going in my book. Doesn’t hurt that it’s a juicy twist. Most of the other men I’m writing about died of smallpox or some other mundane thing.” _

“So that wraps up the facts, then,” I clarify.

_ “Yes, and that brings us to where the legend part kicks in. The story goes that Caroline felt so betrayed by her murder that she haunts the grounds, taking her anger and sadness out on anyone who tries to spend the night at the manor. Sherman is also said to roam the grounds, horrified at what he had done, and again, taking it out on unwary souls who wander onto the property.” _

“So there are two convenient ‘ghosts’ that people can blame for deaths in and around Lockwood Manor.”

_ “Precisely.” _

My mind whirs. Now that I have a better idea of the legend, all I can wonder is,  _ who would want to use it to their own gain, and why? _

“Did one of them die by decapitation, perchance?” I ask on a hunch.

_ “...Yes. The maid, Caroline. Sword to her neck. Wasn’t a complete decapitation, but it did the job.” _

I straighten.

“What about Sherman?”

_ “Noose.” _

“Ah.”

_ “...Can I ask what made you call me?”  _ Velasquez asks, _ “Curiosity? Do you live in Blackridge?” _

“I don’t live in Blackridge, but I  _ am  _ here on a case. The sheriff called me in to investigate the latest string of murders at the Lockwood Estate.”

_ “I see... I wish I could say I had nothing to do with it.” _

I swallow. “But you did?” I ask tentatively.

_ “When I arrived in town last month, neither of those murders had happened yet. I mean, the Lockwood Estate  _ was  _ known to kill people. But not so many, so close together, and so recently.”  _ He says it all in a rush, as if eager to get it off his chest. _ “I started asking questions about the estate,”  _ he continues, _ “about Sherman Lockwood. It seemed to stir up a hornet’s nest among the townspeople. At first, everyone clamored around me to give me their two cents about the legend. Then, suddenly, everything changed after the Monroe kid died. No one would speak to me. I was shorned. It was like they thought I was the cause of the ghost ‘killing again’ and some even told me as much.” _

Like Layla, the Diner Lady. “...Why did they think that?”

_ “They blamed  _ me _ for that kid’s death. Apparently, he’d gone to the manor  _ because _ of me. Because he wanted to be ‘helpful’ and get ‘more information.’ I never asked him to! I never  _ would _ ask anyone to go by themselves. Especially in a place that is so well-known to be dangerous.” _

“Did you tell them that?”

_ “Of  _ course _!”  _ he declares. I can hear the agitation in his voice, and it sounds as though he has started pacing. _ “But no one would listen. I was even taken into the station for questioning. Thank God I had an alibi or else the town would have probably crucified me.” _

“What  _ was  _ your alibi, if you don’t mind my asking?”

_ “Like I told the police, I was at an all-night coffee shop working on my book. The one on the corner of Main and Lakeside. Cameras put me there until four a.m., and the kid died around midnight.” _

“Four a.m.?!”

_ “This is a different time zone than I was used to, you must understand. I thank God that I hadn’t adjusted yet.” _

“Indeed,” I agree. I pause for a moment. “Did the death last night have anything to do with you or your book?”

_ “I’m honestly not sure. I’m worried that it is, and I’m worried that the legend is true. That’s why I called that ghost hunter guy in South Dakota.” _

“What?”

_ “Never mind.”  _ He pauses, and then gives a huffy sigh. _ “Look. I thought it might be ghosts, so I called a ghost hunter. He recommended his nephews. That’s it. I’m embarrassed to even admit it, okay? They don’t even know who called them.” _

I blink.  _ The Winchesters. _

“Can you think of anyone who would do this to get back at  _ you _ ?” I ask, “Do you have any enemies?”

_ “...Not that I can  _ think  _ of. But I suppose it’s possible. Although I don’t see why they would kill innocent people instead of going after me. If they  _ are  _ just trying to get back at me, and using other people to do it, then they are  _ cowards _.”  _ His voice has a bite to it.  _ “I would hate to think that I caused this. I have even considered calling my research a wash and leaving town.” _

“What stopped you?” I ask curiously, “Why stay?”

_ “I… I guess I felt a responsibility to that first kid. I had met him, you know. We’d had a long talk, discussing my other books and how he wanted to follow in my footsteps. If I can even offer the slightest bit of information to help find his killer, then I want to. He didn’t deserve to die. I hope you find the culprit. For his sake. Just... stay away from that house at night. You know, uh, just in case.” _

“I’ll do my best,” I promise.

He is quiet for a few seconds.  _ “Do you have any other questions?”  _ he finally asks.

“I think that’s it for now,” I reply, head swimming with all the new information.

_ “Well, feel free to call again if you need anything else. I’ll do my best to help.” _

“Will do. Thank you, Mr. Velasquez.”

_ “No. Thank  _ you _ , Nancy Drew. And please, call me Edward.” _

“Thank you, Edward,” I say with a smile. “I’ll be in touch.”

_ “WAIT!” _

I freeze, thumb milliseconds away from the “end call” button. I slowly put the phone back to my ear. “...Yes?”

_ “I have a collection of records for the family around that time. Would that be at all helpful to you?” _

My mind races. The deaths do seem to have  _ something  _ to do with Edward’s book and the history of the estate itself. If I can crack the motive, and why the Lockwood Estate is so important, I’ll be that much closer to discovering the killer.

“That would be  _ exceedingly  _ helpful!” I tell him excitedly.

_ “Great! I have a fire safe with it all. I was going to give it to the ghost hunters but I have no idea how I would. I can bring it to say, that coffee shop I mentioned? Are you busy this evening? I can give it to you now.” _

“As a matter of fact, I am  _ not _ busy. Are you sure you don’t mind giving it to me?”

_ “Like I said, if there is  _ anything  _ I can do to help catch that killer, I want to do it. All I ask is that I get it all back at some point, if possible. But I do have photocopies of everything just in case. Maybe just share it with those ghost hunters, though, if you run into them?” _

I bite my lip, not wanting to promise anything concerning the Winchesters. “Thank you so much, Edward,” I tell him sincerely. I check the clock. 6:34 p.m. “Meet you at seven?”

_ “Sounds good. I’ll make sure everything is gathered up. See you then.” _

“See you.”

We hang up.

_ \---- _

I have to park a ways away, but the coffee shop is thankfully easy to find. A well-lit chain store with at least three security cameras outside. I can see why Edward had such an airtight alibi, and why he would be keen to stick around it when possible. I feel bad for the guy.

I hope he doesn’t turn out to be evil or something. But this seems to be a safe meeting place.

I walk inside, the strong aroma of coffee hitting me in the face. There is a light babble, but the place isn’t too crowded. I gawk at the layout. Two-story tall floor-to-ceiling windows line the two outer walls, and the rest has exposed brick and hand-painted logos. The place is illuminated almost solely by Edison-style light bulbs, and is decorated with an array of different styles of tables, chairs, and rugs. Above the ordering counter is a loft, with a sweeping, dark oak staircase giving access.

_ “Wow,”  _ I breathe, going up to the counter. “Uh, one decaf iced tea please,” I tell the barista.

“What size?” he asks with a chipper smile.

“...That one,” I say, pointing to the smallest cup in the display.

“One small, decaf iced tea, comin’ right up,” he says, expertly snatching a small cup and uncapping a permanent marker. “Name for the order?” 

“Nancy.”

While I finish ordering, I scan the shop for anyone sitting with a fire safe. No one on the first floor matches that description. He’s either on the second floor, or not here yet.

I should have asked him what he looks like.

Just as I have come to the brilliant conclusion that I should connect to the shop’s Wi-Fi and look him up, a man, perhaps in his thirties, and with a head full of dark curls and a mustache and beard to match, walks in wearing a smart, tan suit and shiny shoes. He is carrying a heavy-duty, plastic fire safe. 

He scans the room, seeming to have come to the realization that he should have asked for  _ my  _ description.

I start to wave to get his attention, but the barista gets it first. “Small decaf iced tea for Nancy!”   
  


Edward jerks his attention over to the counter, and then to me. He smiles and gives a little wave as he comes over. “Nancy Drew, I presume?” he asks warmly.

“And you must be Edward Velasquez,” I reply with a smile, taking my drink and shaking Edward’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.” He looks over to the barista. “One medium mocha latte please. Hot.”

\----

“So you’ve spent how long on this research?” I ask, taking a sip from my tea and carefully skimming through the crumbling papers contained in the fire safe. I am glad I had disposable gloves in my bag.

“ _ This  _ particular research?” Edward starts, picking up the birth certificate of Edith Lockwood, “Not long, actually. Only about a year. I got all  _ this _ ,” he gestures to the fire safe, “indirectly of course, from the estate sale of the manor when it was abandoned a decade ago. A local history buff had bought it. She sold it all to me when I came to town last month.”

“So the Lockwoods still lived in the estate up until ten years ago?”

“No. No one has actually  _ lived  _ there for about a hundred years. Only maintained by the owners, whether it was the Lockwoods--which it was for a while--or some other buyers. All of this was packed into a cardboard box, which was then put in a bin, and then buried in the attic with a bunch of other junk, apparently. The woman who sold it to me was the one who put it in the fire safe.”

“It’s a miracle this survived at all,” I comment.

Edward laughs. “Right? That’s what I told  _ her _ !” He finishes off his drink and checks his watch. “I really ought to be heading out. But I do sincerely hope this will be helpful.”

“I can already tell it will be,” I tell him with a grin. “Thank you for taking the time to get this to me.”

“Of course.” He stands, but then hesitates. He stares towards the door. “...Nancy?”

“Yes?”

His face darkens. “Find that son of a bitch. And bring some justice to the kid.”

“I will.”

He nods at me, and then straightens his jacket with a yank and walks out.


	11. Chapter 9 - Sam

**Chapter 9 - Sam**

* * *

_ Freedom Motel _

_ Blackridge, New Hampshire _

_ Sunday 9 March 2008 _

After grabbing some fast food for Dean, and a salad from the nearby gas station for me, we are back at our motel. Dean happily unwraps his cheeseburger while I set the box down on the table across from him, my salad untouched. I glance up at him as he takes a bite. I feel an ache in my chest. I’m going to miss this. The days where it’s just the two of us on a hunt, where Dean is truly happy and truly alive. Hell, I’m even going to miss the obnoxious way he eats cheeseburgers. 

The pain in my chest only gets worse, and I quickly look down, hoping Dean doesn’t notice the tears that suddenly spring up in my eyes. I force myself to swallow down my feelings and take out my lockpick again and begin fiddling with the lock. It eventually opens, and I curiously peer inside. 

“Anything good?” Dean asks through a mouthful of food. 

Emotions still running high, I glare. “Would it kill you to swallow before you speak?” 

“I wouldn’t know a whole lot about swallowing.” He grins at me. 

I glare at him again. “Grow up.” I look down into the box. All I can see is a stack of small papers. I gingerly grab the stack and take it out. They are letters all individually stuffed inside envelopes. I spread them out on the table. The envelopes all have the same message: _“To_ _Sherman Lockwood with love,”_ in small, swirling black ink. I take the one that had been at the bottom of the stack and open it. Then I start reading. 

\----

“Hey, do you want any?” Dean’s voice jars me from the letter I’m reading. I look up to see him holding a box of fries. He is doing nothing but eating and getting distracted by his new “Busty Asian Beauties” magazine.

“Uh, no.” I go back to reading. 

“Did you find anything?” he interrupts again. 

“Yeah, actually,” I say without looking up. “I think Sherman was having an affair.” 

“Oh, really?” He contemplates the fries.

“All these letters seem to be from the same person. They’re all signed ‘A. W.’ at the end. She tells Sherman how,” I quickly grab one of the letters I had just finished reading from the table, “‘our forbidden love is stronger than any bond’ and,” I reached for another letter, “she’s ‘afraid of what my father will do to us if we are ever discovered.’” I look up at Dean. 

“Looks like Sherman wanted to make sure his little affair was kept a secret even after his death,” Dean comments as he pops a fry in his mouth. “I mean, the guy did seem pretty pissed when you found the thing.”

“It makes sense,” I add. “Extramarital affairs were even more taboo back then than they are today.” 

“So, you think maybe his paranoia about the scandal carried on after his death?” Dean asks. 

“I mean, it adds up,” I say, trailing off in thought. Something is nagging me. Sherman’s ghost had said something about his daughter, but none of these letters mention any family dynamics. Who was the daughter, and why wasn’t she in the painting with her parents? Had she died young? Maybe she was a product of the affair. That would explain why Sherman showed up when he did.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks. 

“Nothing, just… I mean, you heard the ghost, right? He asked where his daughter was.”

“...And?” 

“There’s no mention of her anywhere in these letters,” I explain. 

Dean sighs, setting down the now-empty box of fries. “We’re going to have to research this, aren’t we?”

“Just to tie up any loose ends,” I promise. 

He sighs. “Fine. I think we passed a library on the way here.” He begins wrapping up the remainder of his food. 

I take a deep breath, pursing my lips slightly. Speaking of mysterious daughters, I can’t get Nancy Drew out of my head. I mean, I had heard of her father when I was in school, but I’ve never heard of his daughter. She completely blindsided us earlier today. And if she is anything like her legendary father, we need to know more about her. “Wait, Dean.”

He pauses and looks up at me, before wiping his hands on his jeans. “Yeah?”

“Maybe we should call Bobby. Have him dig up some stuff on Nancy?” 

“That’s not a bad idea. You do that, and I’ll get the car started.”

I nod and pull out my cell phone. I find Bobby’s number and press the call button. He answers after two rings. 

_ “Hello, Sam. You boys in trouble?” _

I can’t help but smile. Such a typical Bobby greeting. “No, actually. But we do need your help on something.” 

_ “What a surprise. What do ya got for me?”  _

“A person actually. Nancy Drew. Ever heard of her?”

_ “The name sounds vaguely familiar. Why? She a Hunter?” _

“She’s a P.I., but her father, Carson Drew, is a famous lawyer.” 

_ “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of him. One of those international big wigs. He’s a really big deal, you know. You boys in trouble with the law again?”  _

“No, no,” I reassure. “We just met his daughter on this job.”

_ “And let me guess, she’s interfering with the hunt, and you can’t get rid of her.” _

“Yeah, exactly.”

_ “And her name’s Nancy Drew?” _

“Yeah.”

_ “I’ll see what I can dig up. I’ll call you as soon as I do.”  _

“Thanks, Bobby.” 

\----

I sigh in frustration. I swear, this library hasn’t been updated since 1992. I don’t even remember the last time I had to use microfilm. A stack of microfilms containing the newspaper content dating back to the town’s founding are laying next to me on the table while I struggle to figure out how to fit the microfilm under the microfilm reader. I just have to find out if Sherman Lockwood had a daughter. It would be nice to find out who A.W. is and where Sherman is buried too, but I don’t have high hopes. 

“Here.” 

I look up as Dean hands me a warm cup of coffee. I gratefully take it. 

“Want me to drive a little?” he asks and nods at the microfilm. 

I sigh. I could probably use a break. “Yeah.” I get out of my chair and into the one next to it while Dean takes my place. He takes a sip of his own coffee before adjusting the microfilm and getting it right his first try. How. I glare at him jealously as I sip my coffee, but it doesn’t last long as I stare at my brother. Not even three months from now we won’t be able to do this. Work together. Memories of the sixth months I had living as though Dean had died bubble up in the back of my mind. If we ever see that trickster again, I’m going to stab him myself and make sure he stays dead. I try to focus on the task in front of us, but the loneliness has already begun to take hold of me.

“What are we looking for again?” Dean asks. “Sherman Lockwood’s daughter?” 

“Yeah,” I confirm. “See anything?” 

“Not here,” he answers thoughtfully before switching the film. He gets it on his first try again. I take another angry sip of coffee. “Wait, I think I found something,” he says after a few moments. I scoot closer. “Sherman’s obit.” Dean starts reading, “‘Despite dying before his time, Sherman Lockwood was a pillar to the community and will be remembered for his great works.’”

_ Dying before his time, just like Dean _ . I shake my head a little to bring myself back to the present. Dean isn’t dead yet, and he will  _ not  _ die anytime soon. I need to get a grip. Dean is  _ not  _ going to hell. Not on my watch. I will make sure of it or die trying.

I drink my coffee, hoping it placates the paralyzing helplessness that begins to spread across my body. I force myself to focus on the job. “‘Dying before his time’,” I repeat wryly, “Funny how they don’t say suicide.”

“Yeah, well, probably not polite enough or whatever for back then. But look at this,” Dean continues. “‘Lockwood’s funeral service will be held by Priest Zephaniah Woodbury and his daughter Abitha,’” he reads. 

“A.W.!” I exclaim excitedly. Someone shushes me from across the room. Dean glares at them on my behalf. 

“Looks like Sherman here was banging the preacher’s daughter,” Dean says, laughing to himself a little too giddily.

“Any mention of  _ Sherman _ having a daughter?” I ask. 

“‘Sherman Lockwood had no heirs. His belongings will be inherited by his wife and the estate staff,’” Dean reads.

“The estate staff?” I question. That doesn’t seem right. Didn’t the inheritance usually  _ just _ go to the family? “Why would he give any of his belongings to them?” 

Dean shrugs. “Maybe he was a philanthropist.” 

“It’s still unusual, Dean.” 

“Who cares? We know who the ghost is and,” Dean points at the screen, “where he’s buried.” 

“‘Lockwood Estates,’” I read.

“Yep. There’s a private cemetery in the back.” Dean grins. “Let’s go fry ourselves a ghost.”

\----

Almost an hour later, Dean and I are back at the motel, waiting for night to fall so we can go to the cemetery without any prying eyes. 

Dean sits on his bed and brainlessly surfs through the TV, snacking on a pre-packaged pie slice from the gas station. I’m sitting at the table re-reading Abitha’s letters to Sherman. The setting sunlight pours an orange light across the table. It still bothers me that we didn’t find anything about Sherman’s daughter at the library, or anything about Abitha, for that matter. Maybe there is something I missed in the letters. 

My cell phone rings. I glance down. It’s Bobby. I answer the call and put it on speaker. Dean turns off the tv and curiously walks over to the table and sits across from me. 

“Hey, Bobby,” I say cheerily. “It’s Sam. I’m with Dean. You’re on speaker.” 

_ “Hey, boys,” _ he greets.  _ “How are you doing?” _ But his voice is tight with concern. I know the real question he’s trying to ask: How is Dean?

Dean notices. “We’re fine,” he replies shortly. “Why are you calling?”

There’s a slight pause as Bobby probably thinks over the decision to call Dean out on his bullshit. He doesn’t.  _ “I dug up some stuff on your girl Nancy,”  _ he finally answers.

“And?” I prompt.

_ “Well, I gotta say, you’re in deep now,”  _ Bobby says.  _ “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Nancy Drew is the only child to Carson and Kate Drew. Her mother died when she was young--I’ll get to that later. She was raised by her father and her live-in nanny and housekeeper Hannah Gruen. Now, the rest is a bit complicated, so do you boys want the good news or the bad news first?” _

I frown. His phrasing implies that neither news is all that great. “Bad news,” I say, looking over at Dean. He crosses his arms over his chest expectantly. 

_ “Little Miss Nancy Drew here has been all over the place. And I don’t mean like you boys. She’s a real global citizen. She’s been to Scotland, England, Germany, Japan, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, France, Italy, Ireland, the Bahamas, Egypt, Greece, Iceland… need I go on?” _

I sigh. 

“No, Bobby,” Dean says, “we get the picture. 

_ “Good. Because it’s only going to get better.” _ The sarcasm in his voice is evident.  _ “Every single case she’s been on, both inside and out of the country, she’s solved. Every. Single. Case,” _ Bobby emphasizes. _ “She’s a real tough cookie, too. She’s been physically harmed, received death threats, and regularly places herself in near-death experiences. I’m surprised you three haven’t been getting along since you have so much in common." _

Huh. Maybe she  _ is  _ the Hunter type.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Trust me, we couldn’t be more different.” 

I stifle back a laugh. He’s still upset about her rejecting him. 

_ “She’s also been to jail,”  _ Bobby says. 

I shouldn’t be surprised anymore, but I am. That doesn’t seem right. The young, smart woman we met earlier is the last person I expect to be in a prison. “What?” I ask. 

_ “Nancy’s streak of success has been noticed by a lot of people. Including the bad ones.”  _

I suck in a breath. That’s bound to happen, but I can’t help but feel nervous for her. Monsters are monsters. Of course they’re bad. It’s the bad  _ people _ that really scare me, and Nancy doesn’t seem like the type to shy away from any danger.

Bobby continues,  _ “She was framed for arson a little while back and put in jail. She wasn’t held there for long since evidence popped up provin’ she wasn’t the arsonist, but this girl has tangled with some real dangerous people. But the framing doesn’t stop there.” _

“What do you mean?” I say. 

_ “Someone was going around pretending to be Nancy and stealing jewelry. This impersonator accused Nancy of being an imposter, and said that the jewel thief was the real her.” _

“A shifter?” Dean says automatically.

_ “Nope. Just a nutjob who happened to be good with makeup and wigs.” _

Dean rolls his eyes. “What is wrong with people?” 

_ “You’re tellin’ me,” _ Bobby agrees. There’s a slight pause.  _ “But this is where things get real interesting. She’s encountered ghosts before.” _

“What?” Dean and I both ask in unison. 

_ “Yup. One on a private island in Georgia, and one in Salem, Massachusetts. Maybe more. This girl has been tanglin’ with the real deal, and she doesn’t even know it.”  _

“And she’s  _ still _ a skeptic,” Dean says almost as if it’s an accusation.

_ “Well, the official story was that the ghost in Georgia was a hallucination caused by a faulty heater in the basement. The one in Salem was attributed to spiked tea. But you can’t blame her for bein’ a skeptic. If you boys had never encountered the supernatural, I’m sure you’d believe in faulty heaters and spiked tea over ghosts. I know I would.” _

Dean and I exchange a look. Would it be best to keep her in the dark? I know I’d rather not know about the supernatural. When I left Stanford to join Dean, I never thought I would be hunting for this long, and I don’t see an end to it any time soon. But, if it came down to a life or death situation, maybe bringing up her past ghost encounters could help Nancy believe. Or at least get her to consider the possibility that ghosts are real.

“Okay, so what else?” Dean says. “Who are her contacts?”

_ “You boys better hold on tight. This girl has connections. As Sam mentioned to me earlier, her daddy is a lawyer. And not just any lawyer. Carson Drew has been to as many places around the world as Nancy has. He has a lot of pull with local and international authorities. I’d advise you boys to stay away from him, or at least try to stay under Nancy’s radar enough for her not to mention you boys to her dear old dad. From what I found, Nancy got her first cases by helping Carson. Seems like all three of ya took after your fathers.” _

I push down the regret bubbling up my throat. “And what about her mom? You said she died when Nancy was young?” I glance over at Dean. He stares at the phone intently. 

_ “Kate Drew died when Nancy was ten. Car accident in Scotland,”  _ Bobby answers.  _ “Now, this is where things get a little...weird.” _

“They haven’t already?” I ask. 

_ “From what I dug up, Kate Drew was in Glasgow helping a local FBI-type organization called ‘Cathedral’.” _

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean says. “‘FBI-type organization’? Was Nancy’s mom a  _ spy _ ?” 

_ “I couldn’t tell ya. All the reports I found were all nice and ambiguous.”  _

Dean and I exchange a bewildered look. Nancy’s family is just as complicated as ours, it seems.

_ “Anyway, Kate’s death was ruled an accident, but when Nancy was eighteen, she went up to Scotland herself to investigate Kate’s death.” _

I frown. “So Kate’s death  _ wasn’t _ an accident?” 

_ “The most up-to-date theory I could find says that the terrorist cell Kate was investigating was behind the car accident. And when Nancy was up in Scotland, she helped Cathedral take down said terrorist cell.” _

“So, the terrorists killed Kate?” I ask. 

_ “Hell if I know. It’s just a theory. I’m just telling you boys what the official reports are sayin’.” _

“Okay,” Dean says. “So what has Nancy been up to now?” 

Papers shuffle over the phone before Bobby speaks,  _ “She is the sole owner of ‘Drew P.I. Firm,’ which is a brick and mortar by her father’s law offices in her hometown of River Heights, which is in--” _

“I mean why is she  _ here _ ?” Dean clarifies. 

_ “...She and her father are good friends with the River Height’s Chief of Police, Chief McGinnis. McGinnis is good friends with Sheriff Reeves. See what I’m getting at?” _

Dean clears his throat, “And, uh, what about boyfriends?”

_ “What?” _

“Does she have a boyfriend?” 

_ “Please tell me you did not try and flirt with this girl.” _

I grin. “Oh, he did.” 

_ “How bad did she shut you down?” _

Dean seethes. “I’m trying to find out some real information here, guys.”

I chuckle. “Sure you are.” 

_ “She does, in fact, have a boyfriend, Dean. More respectable than you, too. His name is Ned Nickerson. They’ve been going out for a solid four years from what I gathered.” _

Dean rolls his eyes and snorts. “He sounds boring.”

I ignore him. “So, what’s the good news you mentioned?” I ask Bobby.

_ “Well, you don’t become an internationally known sleuth by twiddlin’ your thumbs all day. This Nancy girl is smart, determined, and capable. But she adamantly refuses to believe in anything supernatural. Give her a single reason to not believe in a ghost, and she will take it and run. All you boys need to do is give her that reason.” _

Dean and I exchange a worried look. “I don’t know, Bobby,” Dean says. “It seems risky.”

_ “More risky than her facing a ghost with no idea how to handle it? Trust me, I know that road all too well.” _

I sigh. “And this is the good news?” 

_ “I’m giving you two a solution for getting this girl off the job. You better take it.” _

“And if she doesn’t bite?” I ask.

  
_ “She has to, because the one thing I have learned from doing all this research on Nancy Drew is she won’t stop until the case is resolved.  _ How  _ it resolves is up to you.” _


End file.
